


Safe And Sound

by alemoncakelife



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Falling In Love, Internal Conflict, Mutual Pining, Reunions, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-13 02:01:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 25,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29020866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alemoncakelife/pseuds/alemoncakelife
Summary: In the Vale, Sansa's been living as Alayne Stone, while Littlefinger's been planning to betroth her to Harry the Heir and win back the North in her name. But when whispers of Arya Stark being forcibly wed to Ramsay Bolton reaches the Eyrie, a new game must be played. Sansa must reveal herself sooner than intended and ride to Winterfell with the Knights of the Vale at her back.They head for the Wall to join forces with Stannis Baratheon but instead they meet a much changed Jon Snow who has Theon Greyjoy as his prisoner. Jon and Sansa must work together to take back Winterfell, if they want to prepare the North for the wars yet to come.They need to trust each other. Their safety and capacity to love depends on it.(This takes place post S4 and has aspects of both show and book storylines.)
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark, Theon Greyjoy/Jeyne Poole
Comments: 60
Kudos: 123





	1. A Stark In Winterfell

**Author's Note:**

> So just to give some context to where we're starting. Harry the Heir has arrived at the Eyrie and Sansa has been getting him to fall for her as Baelish instructed. Jeyne Poole is keeping her storyline in this one.

_When_ _Robert_ _dies, Harry the Heir becomes Lord_ _Harrold_ _,_ _Defender of the Vale_ _and_ _Lord of the Eyrie_ _._ _Jon Arryn_ _'s bannermen will never love me, nor our silly, shaking Robert, but they will love their Young Falcon ... and when they come together for his wedding, and you come out with your long auburn hair, clad in a maiden's cloak of white and grey with a_ _direwolf_ _emblazoned on the back ... why, every_ _knight in the Vale_ _will pledge his sword to win you back your birthright. So those are your gifts from me, my sweet Sansa ... Harry, the_ _Eyrie_ _, and_ _Winterfell_ _._

Littlefinger’s words had remained in Sansa’s mind as if they were threads in a piece of fabric. She had found it hard to think of anything but Winterfell since. Sansa once thought the closest she’d ever get to returning to her one true home was through her imagination and a handmade snow sculpture. She had come to accept that the North was a land she would probably never see again. Yet she had been told that a lot can happen between now and never…

“Alayne?”

Harry’s voice plucked her from the walls of Winterfell and placed her right back into the gardens of the Eyrie.

“Hm, what?”

“I was asking if you wanted to watch me train this afternoon?”

“Oh, perhaps. I shall have to see if my father has need of me first.”

Her reply caused the smile on his face to fall, and with it his dimples disappeared.

“But of course, my lady.”

However, all it took was a gentle curve of the brunette girl’s lips for his own dimpled grin to return almost as swiftly as it fled. It was not hard to please Harry the Heir but keeping up the act was becoming increasingly wearisome.

For a few moments the crunching of the snow beneath their boots was all that filled the silence. The pair walked arm in arm. Harry wore a powder blue tunic beneath a silvery cape that seemed to brighten his sandy locks. Embroidered falcons flew across his chest and down his arms. Alayne on the other hand, was clad in a plain black cloak that split at the sleeves to reveal parts of a dress just as dark. Today she’d let her ebony waves flow freely from her neck and down her back. The light breeze caused some of the shorter strands to tickle her cheeks.

The crispness of the air served as a small comfort to Sansa Stark. That and the whiteness of the sky reminded her that she was free from her humid cage in King’s Landing. Free from the crowded shrubberies and the streets that always carried the foulest stench. Free from pink silks and golden pendants. And most importantly, far. She was far away from the clutches of the Lannisters who had hardly any friends up here. She’d heard of the vast rewards being offered in exchange for her head. But no number of sellswords or assassins would even bother trying to reach a castle in the clouds. Especially when all they would find was a bastard girl so insignificant that none of them had ever even heard of her. Living as Alayne Stone, Sansa Stark felt almost untouchable.

“Perhaps I could enquire on your behalf?” Harrold Hardyng said, stopping their stroll, “Perhaps if I spoke with Lord Baelish and explained how… well spent your time would be with me, he would relieve you of your duties for today?”

If it were Sansa Stark who’d heard those words, they might have charmed her. Yet Alayne Stone had harder ears and found the words to be simply dripping with desperation. She raised a brow and narrowed her eyes before replying.

“If you wish, ser. Although I must warn you that my father is no fool. Consequently, neither am I. If there is work to be done then I must do it, whether or not you heart can endure it.”

With that, Alayne continued on, leaving the knight to follow her like a helpless pup.

“Well we cannot all have hearts of stone, Alayne.” He called after her. It was a poor attempt at a repartee.

She turned to face him and smirked before pressing a gloved hand against his chest. Alayne sighed, licked her lips and lifted her gaze to meet Harry’s handsomely blue eyes and delivered her riposte.

“It’s true,” she admitted, “my heart is harder than most. Perhaps then I should give it to you, so that you might wear it as a part of your armour.”

The words worked like witchcraft. Within a single breath, Harry had cupped her face and pulled her to him so that the tips of their noses were touching. Sansa wanted to tense but Alayne kept her face and features soft. _Let him believe that I want him._

“If you gave me your heart,” he whispered, “I would defend it like the Night’s Watch does the Wall.”

Sansa smiled and stifled a laugh. He was a funny man, though it wasn’t always intentional. His longing to please her could at times be quite endearing. A flutter of guilt made her smile fall. It was a wicked game she was playing.

“I should like to think, ser, that I am not so cold as the Wall.”

Harry’s thumbs caressed her cheeks as his lips parted.

“You are certainly not my love. But you are every bit as wondrous.”

Sansa shut her eyes, sensing his face moving in for a kiss. It should be sweet. It should feel romantic. Receiving a kiss from a handsome and gallant knight in a garden full of snow. It should have been more than enough to make Sansa Stark swoon. And it would have been, once. But Joffrey and the Queen had torn that dream to shreds years ago. Now she felt nothing. Nothing but numbness. It made her wonder if perhaps in some way she had died in the South? She had lost so much in King’s Landing. Maybe now she was merely a ghost, like the ones in Jenny Of Oldstones. She might have shed a tear, had she been by herself.

Just as Harry’s lips pressed against her own, the sound of running and shuffling pulled them apart. _Thank the gods!_ It was the sound of servants. Their laughs suggested that they were shirking their duties. Before they came into view, Harry grabbed Sansa by the waist and dropped into the snowy grounds. He crawled over to a clump of bushes, pulling her with him.

_“Harry!”_

_“Shh!”_

His hand covered her mouth and he grinned at Alayne’s indignant glare.

“Servant gossip is better than noble gossip.” He winked. Sansa slapped his hand from her face and exhaled in defeat. She supposed it would be too humiliating now for them to be caught rising out of a bush together anyway. It is better to listen to gossip than to become it.

Specks of the scene could be witnessed through the branches and leaves. It certainly was two servants. Their garments revealed as much. There was a red headed boy and a brunette girl. Alayne thought she recognised them. Her name might be Sedany and his was something beginning with ‘W’… Warryn perhaps? The two certainly didn’t waste time though, once they established that they were alone. Warryn had – with all the delicacy of a boar– pressed his sweetheart up against the wall of an archway and started fumbling with her skirts in a hunt for her womanhood. Sedany gasped in between their smooches as if she were coming up for air. But they didn’t stop so there must have been some pleasure in between the panting. Harry was enjoying the show, so much so that he barely noticed how much his own companion was cringing.

The act went on for what felt like an hour or more before one of them eventually spoke. It was Sedany.

“Oh!” She exclaimed, “I have to tell you … something… I heard … from the kitchens.”

“What?” he wheezed, far more focused on his hand that was working beneath her smallclothes.

“It’s … it’s … news … from the North … Oh Warry it’s ever so good!”

“I know, I know”

“No not that. Well, yes _that_ but … _oh_ … it’s so _awful_ but so … so …I couldn’t-”

“ _What?!”_

“Winterfell! Oh Warryn … I couldn’t hardly believe it when I heard … it’s the Boltons who own it yeah?”

“Suppose so.”

“Well … there’s talk … uh … whispers I suppose … that … the son … the um … bastard. Ramsay? I think? Anyway … he’s wed.”

“So?”

“So, he didn’t just wed _anyone_ … it was … a lady. A _Stark_! Lady Arya Stark they say!”

“What? That can’t be right, the Starks are all dead, aren’t they?”

“That’s what I thought but … I think she’d only been missing … I don’t know … no one has seen or heard of her for years and now here she is! Back at her home. As Lady Bolton. Isn’t that good?!”

“Good?! It’s shit! It’s all a load of lies. I don’t believe it! It’s… it’s…”

It had become too much to talk and fuck. In their surrender the servants slumped against the stones, panting like a pair of dogs. Then Warryn scrunched up his nose. He cocked his head in confusion.

“How can that be good? I thought you said it was awful?”

Sedany smoothed her skirts before stating,

“Well, it _is_ awful, but it’s not shit. I got it from a very honest woman I’ll have you know! They’re saying she didn’t want to. That the Stark girl was kidnapped after her papa died and that she got forced into it. Like that sister of hers I guess.”

“Oh yeah. Shame that.”

“Mm. I’ve also heard that he likes to hurt the women he lies with. Sometimes he even sets hounds on them. Mind and not tell anyone though.”

“I won’t, I won’t. Seven hells. Didn’t King Joffrey hurt that other one as well? That family must be cursed or something.”

“Hmm. Maybe. Gods, imagine being made to marry the families that killed your own? Sad really. I shouldn’t like to be forced into a thing like that.”

“What if it was with me?”

Sedany laughed, “Then it wouldn’t be forced, stupid!” He gave her a peck before she continued, “But if we don’t get back soon we probably will get forced into doing a lot worse than getting married, eh?”

Then just like that, the pair were gone. Leaving nothing but an echo of giggles in their wake.

Once silence had returned to the gardens, Harry stretched out on the snowy terrain and chuckled to himself as if he’d just finished reading a good book.

“Who needs players and singers when you have servants, hmm?”

He glanced at his lady, awaiting some sort of jovial comeback. But to his surprise, Alayne stone was silent. Not only that, but she was also so very still. Still and as pale as the snow that she lay upon. He looked at her eyes which had turned glassy and remained staring at the spot where the servants once were. She looked horrified.

“Are you alright, Alayne?” Harry tried to pretend this sight was not unsettling, “H-Has the cold got to you?”

She ignored him. In a moment of foolishness, Harry thought she may be dead, but the small mist created from her breathing was continually disproving that notion. Suddenly a wave of shame burned his cheeks. He felt like an awful, perverted creature now, and it was all her fault.

“I’m sorry. Humour is a tricky thing. I shouldn’t have made you-“

“Arya Stark is at Winterfell.” Her voice threw him a bit. He’d never heard Alayne sound so stuffy and weak.

“So it would seem. Alayne-”

“They said that Arya Stark was alive, and a hostage, and forcibly wed to the Boltons. That is what they said, is it not?”

Harry shrugged. He didn’t expect this kind of tittle tattle to leave her so shaken. Why would she even care so much about the Starks? Perhaps this lowborn girl had an odd obsession with the lives of the highborn girls? It was not uncommon for women to be envious in Harry’s experience. But then why would she be jealous of this one? From what he heard it sounded like all she was doing was suffering. It was then that he realised that if he didn’t answer her now, the silence between them would likely last for an eternity.

“Yes, I believe that is what they said.”

It was only when Harry blinked that a single tear managed to slip from Alayne Stone’s left eye and vanish into the snow. He never saw it.

“Do you think there is truth to it?”

Whispers of a Stark girl being tortured in King’s Landing managed to spread as far as Highgarden.

“Alayne, why do you even care? It’s nothing more than-“

“Just answer me, please!”

Harry considered for a moment and tried not to let the sharpness of her tone cut his pride. He sat upright.

“Well. Come to think of it, I do remember hearing whispers of a wedding in the North, not too far back. If I’m remembering rightly, all the Northern bannermen had to attend. It probably was for the Boltons. But I cannot recall any mention of Arya Stark. I’d assuredly remember a thing like that.”

“Perhaps you were too busy caring about your whores and your tourneys to truly pay attention.”

“What?”

Alayne Stone had never been less attractive to Harrold Hardyng than now.

“Alayne, I know you’re not a rich girl but you might afford me some courtesy! I am your-“

‘You will pardon me.”

* * *

She could hear Harry The Heir calling after her, demanding to know who exactly she was to think that she had any right to storm off like this. But something had possessed Sansa. She walked the halls of the castle faster than she ever had in all her time here. She could hardly breathe. She may collapse. It was too much. Her heart and head were pounding. If she did not faint, then she would surely vomit.

Before either could occur, Sansa found herself standing in the middle of her chambers. Alone. The door behind her barred shut. She stared at the gold and green paints that travelled around the room. They swirled so precisely, until they turned into faded blurs. Then all her strength left her, and she threw herself onto the bed where she could weep freely among the furs. Before long the weeping descended into sobbing. She pictured her sister trapped in a corset and a maiden’s cloak. Her thick hair pulled back and twisted into Northern braids. She saw the Boltons, who she conjured in her mind to be tall, ugly creatures who were closer to resembling monsters than men. Roose and his son both bearing that disgusting pink sigil across their chests. Robb would have cut out their hearts and severed their heads before allowing their little sister to be so irrevocably imprisoned. _But they killed him, you stupid girl. Just like they killed Mother._ The salty tears trickled onto her tongue and by the time she was done, several patches of her furs and sleeves were soaked. She was drained now. All that remained was a cold and empty grief. The kind Sansa had known after being made to look at her father’s head rotting on a spike. It came again that day she’d heard of how Theon Greyjoy had burned her youngest brothers’ bodies after destroying their home. The emptiness returned when the snakes in the Red Keep hissed about the triumph of the Red Wedding. And now here it was again. A numbness so distinct and encapsulating. Her heart had been broken so much that it had turned into stone. Father was right. The lone wolves die.

Sansa stayed in her chambers until nightfall. She lay on her back and watched the light leave the sky. The stars that once glittered looked like nothing mor than tiny specs of dust tonight. The unlit candles welcomed a draught, but she didn’t care. It would be a mercy for her to perish in here. _Selfish,_ a voice within her whispered, _you’re a selfish, awful girl. Your own sister. The last surviving member of your family is being held captive by murderers, and all you are contemplating is how you may die in this room? She is being tortured, and you intend to just lie here and do nothing?! If your fortunes were reversed, Arya would be grabbing the sharpest object she could find before mounting a horse and riding to rescue you. Robb and Mother started a war to save you from the Lannisters. What would you do to save Arya from the Boltons?_

Before she could answer herself, someone rapped at the door. It was a woman’s voice who spoke.

“Alayne? Are you there? Your Lord Father has requested you sup with him tonight.”

No doubt Harry had gone to Littlefinger after she’d abandoned him in the gardens, to accuse him of raising an uncouth brat instead of a subservient sweetling. She hadn’t the strength to feel embarrassed about her outburst. Either that or she genuinely did not care.

“Alright.” Her voice was terribly hoarse, “Tell him I’ll be there soon.”

“As you say, dearie.”

Then just like that, Sansa was alone again.

She didn’t remember removing her cloak, but it was discarded in a heap by her door. She carefully folded it into her chest and picked out what to wear for Lord Baelish. It always had to be something he’d like. Nothing too plain or modest. He enjoyed when she made an effort for him, as much as that turned her stomach. She’d noticed that Littlefinger had something of a preference for the dresses that clung to her and enhanced her female features. She decided to wear the black gown with the indigo feathers she’d sewn across the bodice herself. It had feathers which fanned out at the shoulders. It was the same dress she wore the say she testified to the lords and ladies of the Vale that poor Lysa Arryn’s fall through the Moon Door had indeed been a tragic, drunken suicide. It had also been the first day she’d washed her hair with that brunette dye, erasing Sansa Stark from Westeros. She would never forget how Littlefinger looked at her that day. Like he was a magpie, and she was a shiny piece of silver. The recollection alone was making her muscles twinge. Yet Petyr was the only reason she’d managed to survive for this long. The only reason she was able to walk freely about the castle and speak to whoever she pleased. The only person willing – and wanting – to restore her to Winterfell with an army at her back. In truth Lord Baelish was the only reason that Sansa Stark had any sort of liberty or power at all. She was helpless without him. Now so was her sister.

Once Sansa was dressed, she washed her face to rid herself of the red rings that were all around her eyes. She brushed her hair until it was sleek and then she placed an onyx ring on her forefinger to complete the look. She was Alayne again. The woman who’d built a resilience to life that was stronger than steel. The woman who never cried. But she was also a woman with no claim, and no way to help Arya Stark. Only Sansa had that. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath, bracing herself for Littlefinger. This would not be an evening of timid pleasantries. This would be an evening of well-placed words and wisely made moves. Sansa Stark was going to play a game. A game she had to win.


	2. The Game Begins

“Alayne,” Petyr greeted, rising from the table, “I was beginning to wonder where you’d got to.”

“Apologies father. Today has been…rather eventful.”

He placed a hand on her arm and whispered into her ear, “So I’ve heard.” Then he stole a kiss from her that could only just be considered fatherly. His breath smelled of mint.

Lord Baelish guided his daughter to her seat. The room was glowing amber with candles. Their table was small and circular. It bore two glass goblets filled with cherry-coloured wine, along with dishes that were mostly fruits and leaves. Sansa had an appetite for none of it. She sensed Petyr’s eyes across from her trying to read her expression. She had tried to keep a fairly ordinary face but perhaps it was slipping into something more truthful. It was always harder to be composed when family was in peril. She learned that well enough from her time with the Lannisters. However she looked, it was enough for her false father to order the attendants out of the room. Once they were alone, he ensured privacy by closing the door, locking it and lowering his voice. Sansa pretended not to notice.

“It appears that my daughter was somewhat distressed upon hearing the rumours of Arya Stark.”

Sansa didn’t answer him. She didn’t know how to. He wasn’t often so direct.

“Had I believed that there was any truth to them, I would have told you so myself.”

Irritation seeped into his tone. Littlefinger did not like when she learned things without his involvement. He mustn’t have anticipated Harry’s penchant for eavesdropping. No doubt he’d atone for that misstep after supper.

“You think it’s a lie then.” The words came out of her clear and cold. She didn’t realise how angry she was until now. Looking at the man before her, Sansa felt her jaw clenching and her back stiffening. _Who are you to decide what information I should and should not hear about my own blood?_ The room had somehow become hotter.

“Rumours are not facts.” He rasped with his usual smug smirk pasted on, “They are fragments of information easily twisted into falsehoods.”

“Harry said he remembered a wedding in the North. A wedding that every Northern Bannerman had to attend.”

Petyr nodded as if she’d made a fair point. Then he picked up his goblet and sauntered to the arches that led to a modest balcony.

“People will remember only what others want them to remember, sweetling.”

The word ‘sweetling’ simmered on her tongue. A softer word for stupid, she knew. But he could not triumph tonight. She would not allow it. Sansa picked up her glass and joined him. They stood side by side and together sipped their wine and stared into the night. As they took in the navy night, a memory from the South flashed before Sansa like a stroke of lightning. For a second they were at a harbour, and the stars turned into ships.

“You told me once that you saw my sister. That she was alive.” Sansa said without looking at him.

“I did, and she was. That was over a year ago now.” He took another sip, while still looking straight ahead. The drink was sweet, and the Eyrie was the very image of serenity.

“So, it is not impossible that it _is_ her?” It was here that Sansa turned to him, searching his face for a hint of his thoughts. But his features were fixed, and he did not answer. “I don’t understand how it could be anyone else.” She persisted, “No one would pretend to be her when Cersei has been trying to hunt her down since she first escaped.”

“Yes, pretending to be Arya Stark would be an…unwise endeavour.”

Sansa considered, closely, the likelihood of this being a pretender. Then she thought again about how little that really even mattered. Somebody was being held against their will, in her family home. If the talk was true, they were being tortured relentlessly, and who knows how many more Northerners were suffering similar pains. Since Winterfell had been taken from House Stark, the place and its people had known nothing but devastation and terror. Father would have hated to see it. He wouldn’t have hidden himself away in a time like this. He would have gathered his friends, his allies and rescued Winterfell as he did Aunt Lyanna. But something in her told her that it truly was her sister. A familial instinct, perhaps?

“How many men does Roose Bolton have?”

Lord Baelish furrowed his brows as if she’d just spoken Valyrian. “My lady?”

“How many?” she demanded, unblinking. He sighed and gazed at the charcoal clouds, as if they held the answers.

“About five thousand, I believe. Maybe more.”

Sansa placed her goblet on the stone sill and strutted over to a tall iron candelabra that was creating shadows on the creamy pillar beside it. “We have at least double that.”

“The Knights of the Vale have not yet pledged themselves to you.” Petyr contested, stopping himself from following her.

“But they will.” The girl turned to face him with her arms behind her back, “You said so yourself.”

“They will not likely pledge their swords to a bastard girl, Alayne.”

Sansa stood tall and defiant. “No, they won’t. They will be pledging their swords to Sansa Stark, and she will gain their loyalty by becoming Ser Harrold Hardyng’s betrothed. As you intended.”

In the darkness of the night and the flickering of the flames, Sansa became a statuesque silhouette. The feathers at her shoulders resembled wings. The fire highlighted her slender figure and pert breasts. Littlefinger allowed himself to drink her in. The wine was starting to swirl around his head, amongst many other things. Dark thoughts danced around and around like devils. How enticingly entertaining they were. That brown-haired boy with his auburn lady love. He killed a wolf to win her heart. It was sweeter than any song, and the need was stronger than any sword. He suddenly found himself face to face with her. Her neck was tense, he could see that. He could hear her breath shaking ever so softly. He desired the taste of her lips, but instead he brushed her cheek with the back of his hand. He wanted to soothe her. To keep her. He wouldn’t let her get away again.

“It is too soon.”

“Too soon? If we don’t act now, then it will be too late!” She slapped his hand away, which somehow smacked the sobriety back into him. Petyr had to step back to stop himself from returning the favour. Her Tully eyes were shining now. Even with her hair dyed she was still so beautiful. “Arya’s life is at stake.” Her tearful words dripped into his ears and distorted into an image of a lord with a mockingbird pin pressing a girl up against a pillar and tearing her dress apart. A flurry of feathers. She’d whisper his name and beg him to take her. Beg to be his and his alone. It was too strong a want. He went back inside and started picking at the abandoned meal to distract himself. He found a fig to chew on. Its syrupy centre coated his tongue. Lord Baelish licked his lips before eventually breaking the tension in the room.

“We have no way of confirming that she is your sister.” He leaned over the table in an attempt to gather himself. “If we lay siege to the castle and find an imposter, what then?” He heard the clacking of her heels and sensed her standing near him. She smelled like lillies.

“Then I will reclaim Winterfell in the Stark name regardless. It’s my home. I have to fight for it!” Sansa’s eyes fluttered helplessly as she sank into her chair. Some may have found that pathetic, but Petyr found it to be endearing. “I don’t expect you to understand. I have no brothers left to me now. No mother or father. Arya is all that remains of my family.” Her voice was starting to crack. “I cannot leave her to the hands of those monsters.” Petyr sat down to meet her eyes. She met his gaze with a glimmer of hope. His head was clearer now.

“Your sentimentality is touching, but it is not a suitable substitute for military strategy. _That_ is what will win you your home back.”

He was not unwilling to help her, she could tell. Yet was not a sure enough bet yet for Littlefinger. Sansa rubbed a finger against her lips in thought. She knew he liked watching her think.

“Yohn Royce knows his way around a battlefield.” She suggested. “I don’t see him declining a mission of such honour.”

“Lord Royce is noble, honourable and strong. It would still be a terrible risk.”

His voice was so gentle. Sometimes Sansa thought he still saw her as that little girl he met at the tourney. But then other times reminded her firmly that he did not. She had to figure out how to move him. Petyr Baelish was a man who wanted everything, so she could not afford to neglect a single move. She made herself lay her hands on his own. Their rings touched and she felt his warm fingers wrap around her own. She pushed down the want to pull away. She leaned into him the way she used to lean into Jeyne Poole when she had a secret to tell. She then pushed her lips into a tender smile.

“Since we left King’s Landing, everything we’ve ever done has been a risk. You’re a betting man, are you not Lord Baelish? What are the odds of eighteen thousand soldiers against five thousand?” Sansa saw him soften at this, but it wasn’t enough.

“I doubt Robin Arryn would lend us his entire force. Who should be left to protect him?”

_Well eighteen thousand men haven’t been able to prevent you from poisoning his milk at night,_ she wanted to retort. Instead, she merely tilted her head in agreement.

“Alright, nine thousand then? Is that more plausible?” Sansa was confident it was. Robin had taken a liking to her and was often looking for ways to please her.

Lord Baelish didn’t answer. She could feel his fingers uncurling, and his eyes were wandering. _Don’t let him slip away._ In a moment of desperation, disguised as desire, Sansa clasped his hand fully and whispered,

“You once told me that you loved my mother more than I could ever know. I believe that.” The mention of her mother was what won her his undivided attention. That was it. This was how she’d move him. _Keep going._ “What would she want you to do, Petyr? She loved her children with all her heart. Especially Arya. You and I both know that she would do everything she could to save her daughter. In a better world, she would be with us now and the three of us could ride North and take Winterfell together. But to our sorrow, we don’t live in that world. I know what it is that I’m asking of you. I’m not the naïve little girl you once knew. I’ve changed, and I’ve learned. This will be decidedly dangerous for us all. But we both know that if Cat was here, she’d be asking you to do the exact same thing as I am now. I want you to help me, my lord. I _need_ you to help me. If not for me then, please…for Cat.”

The plates clattered the floor as Littlefinger’s hungry mouth seized her own. It took all her will not to push him away and run out of the room. She tried shutting her eyes and pretending he was Harry, but it made no difference. _I don’t need to enjoy it, only to endure it._ When he finally released her, he was beaming and exhilarated. She’d never seen him so free with his emotions. Gods, he reeked of wine.

“There’s no justice in the world. Not unless we make it.”

A victory. _Thank the Gods!_ Sansa sighed and smiled with all the sweetness she could possibly muster and raised her goblet as though it would shield her from another kiss. Littlefinger raised his too, grinning as if he too had won something.

“So let’s make it.”


	3. Truths And Ties

It had been agreed the night before that Sansa would speak with Robin Arryn whilst Petyr dealt with the rest of the Vale nobility. Initially, Littlefinger had offered to complete both tasks, but Sansa had felt she had a personal duty to directly speak with her cousin. If she wanted men to fight for her, she had to be the one to do the asking. Petyr had praised her for her growing political savvy and kissed her goodnight. She’d gone to bed shaking. Today the sun shone brightly and enlightened each room in the Eyrie. Sansa and Robin sat in a small solar that was decorated with green velvet cushions of varying shades and tapestries of knights on horseback. There was a bare table between them. Robin sat cross-legged, fiddling with his falcon pin. His chestnut hair was flopped to the side as he looked at the floor in thought. Sansa clasped her hands. She’d explained everything. Omitting details that were unimportant and adding emphasis to the cruelty of the Boltons and the duty she had to her sister. The whole tale must have compelled Robin at points, since she noticed him raising his brows and barely blinking. Yet now he seemed confused, or somehow conflicted? Whatever it was, Sansa had chosen to remain silent and let him be the first to talk.

“That’s… that’s terrible!” he said eventually, looking up at her, “I can hardly believe it!”

“Neither could I. But I know it’s her. The news wouldn’t have travelled so fast if it wasn’t.”

She doubted that last bit, but she knew Robin wouldn’t be the type of boy to dispute it.

“Mother told me about the Boltons. How they take the skin off their enemies. It makes me sick. She told me that if any of them ever came up here then they’d go right back out through the Moon Door.”

“Our mothers were wise to distrust them. Perhaps I should commission a Moon Door to be built in Winterfell once I retake it.”

“Retake it?” Robin’s voice fluctuated. His time as a lordling was shortening. Soon he’d be a teenager. He had been receiving lessons in swordplay and archery with Lord Royce for a few months now, but there was little that could be done to prepare a person for this part of growing.

“Yes.” Sansa said simply. “I must. I have a duty to my family. When I was a hostage in King’s Landing, I had no power to help any of them. But now I do. If I don’t try to save my sister, then I would be bringing dishonour on both House Tully and House Stark.”

She knew her cousin would understand that. He wasn’t the brightest flame at the end of a candle, but he knew all the Houses and their words. He knew the word ‘honour’ was shared between the Tullys and the Arryns. He too would know the pressure of pursuing honour throughout his life as a Lord and Protector of the Vale. Everyone he knew would have told him as much from the moment he learned to walk and talk. He moved his fingers from the pin to his cape. They searched for a fray and when they found it, began picking and pulling at it.

“I understand. But you don’t have an army, do you? Won’t you need one to take the castle?”

Sansa sat upright and held her head high. “You’re right, my lord. The Boltons have stolen from House Stark both their castle and their men. I have given it a great deal of thought, and I have realised that, if I am ever to succeed in doing this, then my only hope is with House Arryn. With you, dear cousin.”

“Me?!” His hands fell to his seat. Sansa’s chest tightened. _Move him gently,_ uttered a voice that sounded a little too much like Lord Baelish.

“Yes, you.” She found her hands sliding across the table like they were trying to reach him. “Lord Robin Arryn. Warden of the East, Defender of the Vale and Lord of the Eyrie. The Knights of the Vale are the bravest and truest Westeros has ever known. If they rode with me to Winterfell, the Boltons wouldn’t stand a chance. Together, we could save Arya. I imagine the singers would write many songs of your gallantry, and the height of your honour would be unrivalled.”

That might have overwhelmed Robin before, but with his age he had been finding a new hunger to both please and impress. Songs of his heroism? Unmatched honour? It was all Lysa Arryn had dreamed for her boy.

“I’d be pretty stupid to say no to something like that.”

Sansa’s eyes glistened and a smile spread across her face. Robin grinned in return. Then something made him falter.

“Wait.” His eyes darted back and forth, trying to calculate. “I can’t give you all my men. There would be no one to protect the Vale!’

Sansa chuckled and nodded good naturedly. “Of course, cousin. Obviously, we don’t expect the _entire_ force to come with us! Uncle Petyr and I have discussed it, and he thinks that a victory could be won with no more than nine thousand men. I imagine Lord Royce would agree. I don’t know much about battles myself, but I believe the numbers have promise.”

Robin leaned forward and rested his head on his fist. His lips were parted, and his brown eyes squinted. “But then… what if people don’t want to fight?” He shrugged. “I guess I could just throw them through the Moon Door.”

Sansa sometimes wondered if there was an unwritten rule that every boy leader had to be needlessly cruel? She supressed a sigh and pretended to appreciate his solution.

“Loyalty can be a…challenge for lords and ladies. That is why your Uncle Petyr has decided that Harrold Hardyng and I shall wed once the battle is won. A betrothal to such a man should ensure absolute loyalty for all of us.”

He looked at her like she’d just spat in his face. “Harry the Heir?!?! But he’s such an arse! You can’t marry him, you just _can’t_!”

“Robin!”

“You’re too good for him! Why don’t you marry me instead?! We could rule the North and the East and be more powerful than anyone! I’m sure Uncle Petyr would allow it!”

“Robin, please.”

Sansa had rounded the table and knelt beside him. She laid a hand on his shoulder and his breathing steadied.

“I assure you, my lord, it would be the greatest of honours to be your bride. But it simply wouldn’t be practical! We couldn’t live at both Winterfell _and_ the Eyrie. The journey between the places are months apart and it would be impossible to manage the jobs of both places all at once. It just wouldn’t work.”

“Well make Arya run Winterfell and then you can stay here with me.”

Sansa smiled to herself before looking back up at her scowling cousin.

“I don’t believe you’ve ever met my sister. She’s the most stubborn lady in all the Seven Kingdoms. The minute we free her, she will be far keener to ride horses and go on adventures than become the Lady of Winterfell.”

“Can’t you make her stay? Command it of her?”

“No, my lord. That’s not us.”

Robin Arryn slumped in defeat.

“Alright then. Fine.”

He looked dully at the table. Sansa softly turned his head to meet her own.

“Thank you, Robin.”

He smiled, seeming to forget the trauma her betrothal had caused him minutes before.

The door creaked open as a servant entered with a tray of treats from Lord Baelish. Sansa rose and returned to her seat. The man placed the tray carefully on the table and it contained a plate of lemon cakes, with a jug of water and a cup of milk for Lord Arryn. Sansa thanked him and the servant swiftly shuffled away. Robin looked sad again.

“What is it?” asked Sansa, taking a lemon cake and trying not to eat the whole thing in one go.

“I’m to be a man soon. Milk is for babes.”

Sansa knew that Littlefinger lacing the milk every night with drops of poison for the past few weeks had ultimately caused the boy to go off the stuff. He hadn’t pieced together that it was encouraging his sickliness though. Part of her was glad that Petyr didn’t want Robin Arryn to join them on the journey North. It would hopefully spare him from having to drink this. A twinge of guilt turned inside her, thinking of how passive she’d been towards it all previously. Yet how could she have stopped it? Littlefinger had told her of it but never actually did the deed in her presence, and by the time she’d reached Robin in the past he’d already drank the whole cup. Although maybe now was her chance.

“You know, you don’t have to drink it if you don’t want to.”

“Uncle Petyr will know if I don’t.”

Sansa wondered how Lysa would have reacted had she known her beloved Petyr was trying to murder her darling boy. Maybe then it would have been Lord Baelish who was pushed through the Moon Door. Maybe Lysa would have liked her better if it had been someone else who brought Sansa to the Eyrie? Sansa told herself that that was a foolish thought. _The world is cruel and twisted._ _She would have found a reason to hate you either way._

She watched forlornly as her cousin went to take a sip of his milk. Then it came to her. Without a second of hesitation, Sansa snatched the milk from his hands and poured the entire cup out of an open window. The contents vanished into the milky white clouds. Robin looked at her in amazement.

“My sister and brothers used to do that when they didn’t want to eat their soup. Unfortunately, they weren’t so high up as this so often it would land on some poor person’s head.” 

He chortled and snorted and shook and Sansa was glad to see him so joyous. She put the empty cup on the tray and together they demolished their lemon cakes.

* * *

Lord Baelish’s party was not so easily amused. Yohn Royce and Anya Waynwood sat with stern expressions and stony stillness as they listened to his revelation. He stood before them and spoke with a smooth and even voice of how he’d stolen Sansa Stark away from Joffrey’s wedding to save her from being beheaded on false charges of regicide. How together they had agreed for her to live under the alias of Alayne Stone with the protection of Lady Lysa Arryn. How the news of Arya Stark being forcibly wed to Ramsay Bolton had compelled them both – with Robin Arryn’s blessing – to rally the Knights of the Vale to rescue her.

“And so, you see, my lord and lady,” he concluded, “marrying Lady Sansa to Harry the Heir will create an unbreakable alliance between the North and the East, and with it will come years of prosperity and security for all of us.”

“You mean to tell me that you have been smuggling Sansa Stark under our noses for the better part of a year, Baelish?!” Royce’s voice boomed, “You are a bolder liar than I ever took you for, you treacherous little snake.”

Lord Baelish met his stare, unmoved by his rage. “Your aggravations are understandable, Lord Royce. You must appreciate, however, that Lady Stark is my niece by marriage, and her safety has been of paramount importance to me.”

“We can appreciate it, but that does not mean we may excuse it.” Anya Waynwood responded with a more subtle anger than her consociate. “Had you made the girl’s identity known to us from the first, we would have used all our powers to ensure her protection. You were wrong to deceive us.”

“Then I have never been more grateful to me wrong in all my life. I can only hope you’ll both grow to forgive me for this… regrettable misstep. It appears that living in King’s Landing has turned me into something of a cynic.”

Lady Anya rolled her eyes. “Well that hardly matters now. What matters now, is how we may work together to make certain that this campaign is a success. Since Harry is my ward, I will explain to him the truth about ‘Alayne’ and advise him to comply with this marital arrangement.” She rose to stand by Baelish’s side. Her silver skirts swished and swayed from the movement. Lord Royce remained seated, and his frown was just as unwavering.

“Forgive me, Lord Baelish, but you seem to have forgotten that Lady Stark has already been married to that monstrous imp Tyrion Lannister. Last time I checked he has not stopped breathing.”

Littlefinger acknowledged the man’s objection, before assuring him that the marriage had never been consummated, and therefore it was nullified. Furthermore, if Cersei Lannister was to have her way, Sansa Stark would likely be a widow sooner rather than later.

“If Cersei Lannister has her way, Sansa Stark will be dead before we can so much as mount our horses.” Yohn Royce countered. “If we are to pursue this, it must be done delicately. Eddard Stark was a close friend of mine and I will be damned to the seven hells if I allow the lions to slaughter his eldest daughter on my watch.”

Lady Anya concurred and turned to face Baelish. The light caught her grey curls and made them glow white. She looked almost ghostly.

“We cannot allow the Lannisters to hear of this prematurely. With the price they are offering on that poor girl’s head, it is far too great a risk. How do you suggest we unveil Sansa Stark without inviting a hoard of sellswords and assassins to our gates, Lord Baelish?”

Petyr distanced himself and sauntered around the room, taking in the tapestries and stools. The threads were old and faded. They smelled musty.

“The life of a Stark girl is a valuable thing indeed.” He rasped with his back to them. “Sansa knows this all too well. Yet she is the one who proposed this mission.” He pivoted with a sly smirk. Yohn Royce’s breastplate glinted as he shifted in his seat. “Neither of you know her well, but I do. Years in the South have changed her. She is no longer the child you met at Winterfell, Lord Royce. Nor is she the unrefined bastard girl you’ve spoken with, Lady Waynwood. She is a Lady, and an intelligent one at that. She knows better than anyone the ruthlessness and cruelty of the Lannisters. She has seen members of her family make terrible errors in judgement and watched them suffer the consequences each time. She does not underestimate the risk she is taking, and the price we may all have to pay for this if we fail. She is choosing to reveal herself at this time because King Tommen is heavily influenced by Queen Margaery, who has a great personal affection for her. Subsequently Cersei has lost nearly all her power over the crown and is a considerably smaller threat since the death of Lord Tywin. If Sansa Stark rode North with the support of the Warden of the East and the Knights of the Vale at her back, I do not imagine her life would be in peril. Besides, once we’re in the North it will be too arduous a journey for any Southern enemy to pursue her, and every noble house in the North only follows the Boltons out of fear, not loyalty. When they hear that a Stark wants to claim the castle, they will be easy enough alliances to make. We have the advantage, in every possible way, my lord and lady. All that we require now, is your support.”

* * *

Someone knocked at the door and Sansa told them to come in. She’d spent the whole day in the Silver Tower, searching its library for accounts of battles and Boltons. It had been two days since Yohn Royce had agreed to serve as a commander for her army. In that time, there had also been news of Stannis Baratheon, who was situated at the Wall and preparing to take Winterfell himself. Petyr advised her that she should send a raven to him, pledging her men to the cause on the condition that Winterfell is restored to House Stark. She was sat at a desk, surrounded by open books, writing that very letter now. The only sounds to be heard were the whistles of the wind that seeped through the stones, and the scratching of her quill. Although as the ink glided across the parchment, Sansa found it hard to trust that Stannis would emerge from this victorious. She remembered the Battle of Blackwater and how he’d been outsmarted with arguably dishonourable tactics. The Lannisters and Boltons were allies for a reason. One was not unlike the other when it came to playing dirty. She may not know about military strategies, but she knew how to recognise deceit. A skill easily acquired by anyone living in the Red Keep. But in his defence, it had been some time since that siege in King’s Landing and perhaps Stannis had learned from those mistakes. She’d never met him before, so she’d have no way of really knowing. In truth she may have been judging him too harshly. He had held Storm’s End throughout a siege during Robert’s Rebellion and won. She also remembered reading about at least two notable triumphs he had in the Greyjoy Rebellion. Lord Stannis (or King Stannis, she supposed) was a vastly more competent and capable than her when it came to this sort of thing. Maybe that’s why the notion of riding at the helm of nine thousand soldiers was making her feel nauseous. She’d be wise to follow the guidance of this stag when she finally made his acquaintance. Lord Baelish and Lord Royce had said the same.

Harry entered the library and shut the door behind him. He looked particularly handsome today with a teal doublet and his hair pushed back. Sansa on the other hand was still wearing relatively plain garments and going by ‘Alayne’ until the lords and ladies of the Vale considered it safe for her to come forth a Sansa. There were no guards in the library so the two of them were alone, encircled by ancient bookcases that towered above them. The dimming daylight was creating a weak, golden hue.

“Ser Harry.” She welcomed, putting her pen down and wondering if she should be hiding her letter. That question was answered when he addressed her as Lady Stark before approaching her, dropping to his knees and taking her hand. Sansa was very aware that her fingers were stained with ink.

“My lady,” he confessed, “I have been an utter fool. In the time we’ve spent together I have been uncouth, peevish and disgracefully indecent. I need you to believe that had I had known of your name and your, um, position that I never would have treated you this way! It is my greatest shame. I can only hope you deem me worthy of forgiveness.”

She looked at the blonde boy and it took her back to a time in King’s Landing when the sun was setting, and a golden-haired prince had also asked her to forgive him.

“There’s nothing to forgive.” She said emptily. He simpered and kissed her hand. She felt nothing. Not that he could tell.

“Lady Waynwood told me everything. It is remarkable. Your love for your sister is truly admirable.” He was talking to her like she was a frightened mare. She fluttered her lashes and pretended to be flattered, as she’d done with the knight so many times before.

“Thank you, you are too kind.” Sansa removed her hand from his grip and looked at the lilac leaf pattern on her dress. “I suppose, if Lady Waynwood has told you everything, then you know that we are likely to be spending a great deal of time together from now on.” She could see his face lighting up. His dimples deepening.

“Yes indeed, my lady. It is the highest honour a man like me could wish for, to have you for a bride. Rest assured that as your lord husband I will make sure every Bolton pays for his crimes against your family. I swear that to you on my life, my lady. Once the battle is won, they will sing songs of our valour and our children will tell our story to their children and they will tell it to theirs and it will be one of the most glorious legacies this world will ever know!”

Sansa suddenly felt like she was drowning. She scraped her chair back and opened the nearest window. The cold air washed over her, and she closed her eyes and inhaled. For a moment she imagined she was home with her brothers and sisters, when they were all too young to have to worry about their roles and obligations. All that mattered then was who could run the fastest or build the biggest snowball. She’d never felt so far from who she used to be. When she opened her eyes, she even forgot that the brown hair swirling in the breeze was hers. She was so tired of hiding away. When she looked back, she realised Harry was now standing by the desk, twiddling with an inkpot and awkwardly quiet. He was no longer looking at her.

“It’s dusty in here.” She said, taking some steps towards him. He murmured in agreement but kept fixated on the little pot. Gently, she prised his hand away from the it and moved in to shorten the space between them. Harry peered at her, unsure as to whether or not he should retreat. He didn’t want to but, if someone were to walk in and catch them…

“Our sons,” she began with a voice like honey, “and our daughters will marvel at the bravery of their lord father. Just as their mother does now.” She hesitated before embracing him. In her heels they were not so different in height. Sansa could feel Ser Hardyng’s hands stroking her back. In a moment of madness, she thought his hands meant to rip open her dress at the spine, but she managed to vanquish that fear as quickly as it came to her. She managed to tell him how happy she was to be betrothed to a knight, and how it had always been a childhood dream of hers. He smiled at this and professed that her happiness meant everything to him, and that his heart and sword would always belong to her from this day until his last. Her eyes twinkled.

The pair spent the rest of their afternoon reading Westerosi history together. Occasionally Harry would scoff at pages that told stories of how Targaryen rulers won their battles with dragonfire. He’d tell Sansa that it was hardly worth a song since it was not an even match. “Dragons are magnificent beasts,” he mused, “but it’s like bragging about winning a fight where you have a sword, and your opponent has a twig.” Sansa would hum in support whilst trying not to linger too long on chapters containing tales of love and heroes. Even after all the pain she had experienced, these stories still had a certain magic to them that could draw her in and ignite her imagination. She recalled that when she was younger, Waymar Royce was staying at Winterfell for a short time, and she became foolishly infatuated with him. To her, he was the most beautiful boy she’d ever seen, and he was always kind to her. For nights in a row, she’d snuggle under her furs and reread the legend of Florian and Jonquil. She pictured Jonquil to be a red-haired girl, and Florian to be a brunette boy dressed in black, with beautiful grey eyes and a longsword decorated with jewels. Sometimes she read the story to Jeyne Poole, the steward’s daughter, who adored the notion of true love just as much as her. Sometimes Rickon and Arya would interrupt their readings and pretend to vomit all over the floor. It was all just silliness really. Still, Sansa had been certain she’d fallen in love at that time. She had the same stupid infatuation with Prince Joffrey. That was the last time she ever allowed herself to be so foolish. _There’s no such thing as true love. Not really_. The world was too full of liars, and nearly all her friends and family from childhood were nothing more than ghosts now. Sansa shut the book and resumed her letter to Stannis Baratheon. As Littlefinger instructed, she would tell him of her new marriage to Harry the Heir and stress the number of men she’d be pledging to their mutual cause. She drafted and redrafted, then curled up the one she deemed best to send North. She sealed it with her direwolf sigil and glanced at Harry who now slumbered in a nest of scriptures. He was snoring. She tried not to envy the peaceful expression on his face. Almost all of Sansa’s sleeps were plagued with nightmares. She wondered if the same could be said for her sister.

_I am coming for you, Arya._


	4. What Is Dead

Jon Snow sat silent and stroked his wolf’s fur, staring into the snowy abyss. The fire crackled in the commander’s room where he had spent the day trying to avoid the followers of the now dead Stannis Baratheon. It was only a day ago that he himself had been dead too. He’d been betrayed. Murdered by mutineers. Edd had told him of how he and Tormund joined forces to avenge him. How they guarded his body with steadfast bravery. His friend also told him of how some brothers now feared Lord Snow, to which Edd Tollett had remarked that they should only be afeared if his eyes turned blue. Edd sat with him now, drinking ale and watching the flames dance upon the logs. Jon nursed his own cup in his free hand but couldn’t bring himself to take a swig. Since he’d…come back…he had had little want for food or drink. Along with that, his mind could think of nothing else but the people he’d killed. The men and the boy. _Traitors,_ he reminded himself, although their faces still hung before him. Olly was so young. He’d taken him in only to make him into a corpse instead of a man. He wondered if he’d been restored to this world only to take others out of it. If any gods existed, it was probably their idea of a cruel joke. If any gods existed, they never made themselves known to Jon Snow in his death. At night, when he’d closed his eyes and tried to sleep, the black nothingness made him feel like he’d never really been resurrected at all. Then at dawn, the sense of emptiness that followed him around throughout the day made him wonder if only part of him had been brought back to life in the end. There was something missing within. He could feel it. A hollowness. What exactly it was though, he could not say. Yet the living side of him knew that whatever it was about him that had been lost, nothing could ever truly bring it back. He’d always be less alive than before. His gaze fell onto the fire and Jon Snow wondered if he still had enough life left in him to belong on this side of the Wall…

“I’m sorry that Stannis never won your home back.” Edd said bitterly. “If you’re going to have some red woman preach about how special you are, you should at least have the decency to win your own battles.”

Jon forced himself to drink to spare himself from having to respond. The reminder of Stannis’s defeat was sparking too many concerns for him. How many unburned bodies now lay in the North for the Night King to raise? Will the red witch now latch herself onto him since she was the one who restored him to this world? And how did he have any hope in hell of saving his sister now?

Edd kept going. “We need to figure out how to get rid of his friends. They can’t stay here unless they want to become brothers. Or unless their Lord of Light can cross the Wall and destroy all the dead for us. Then they can stay for the winter _and_ summer.”

“And every other winter to come.” Hearing his gruff voice made Jon very aware of how little he’d spoken all day. “I doubt it, though.”

Edd hummed in agreement as he finished his ale and for a time nobody said anything. Until Jon eventually decided to come clean to his friend. He pulled his hand away from Ghost who looked up at him with eyes like embers.

“I can’t stay here, Edd. Not after what’s happened.”

“What?” In truth, Edd Tollett had suspected as much, but he had hoped that if it wasn’t discussed then it simply wouldn’t happen.

“I have to go. I’m not sure where. I just know I no longer have a place here.”

“You do have a place here. You’re a brother of the Night’s Watch, and you and I both know that we need all the men we can get.”

“I’m not a brother anymore.”

“But the dead-“

“I’ll fight them with you, I will. Just not as a crow.”

Edd looked at him as if he was a riddle to solve. “You’re not thinking about trying to get your sister, are you?”

Jon looked at his feet and sighed. “I have to try.”

“I think the red woman forgot to resurrect your senses, Lord Snow.”

“I know it’s a risk! But I have to take it! You’ve heard yourself what the Boltons are doing to her, what kind of a brother am I to leave her with them? I’ve honoured my oaths here. Now my duty lies with her.”

Edd shook his head. He was unconvinced. “A whole army couldn’t beat them.”

“It was not an army loyal to the Starks. It’s different when you have an army with a cause.”

“Well, you have the cause, but you don’t have the army.”

“So, I find one.”

“How?” It sounded more like a demand than a question.

Jon was going to tell him of House Mormont’s loyalty to the Starks, and that the whole North had risen up against enemies of the wolves before. However, they were interrupted by a deafening horn and a command from outside to open the West Gate.

The two men grabbed their cloaks and gloves and headed out to the walkway. The courtyard conveyed a canvas of snow and scattered across it were clumps of men in black garments that ruffled like feathers in the breeze. If Tormund was near Jon would have concurred that the men of the Night’s Watch really did just look like crows in the snow. Alas, Tormund was among some other wildings who were dotted about the yard as well. Everyone watched the gate get hauled open with no clue as to who the visitor was. Jon noted that a few brothers had gripped their pommels, assuming – fairly reasonably – that this visitor was likely an enemy who’d soon have to be fought off. Yet to their surprise, the gate unveiled nothing more than a small, skinny stranger who would be crawling on the ground if he was hunched over any further. They clutched their elbows and shuffled timidly into the courtyard. All those surrounding him stared on like charcoal statues. Unsure of who he was or what his business may be. No one was close enough to catch his eyes, but a flash of ice blue may be all it would take for some to grab a torch and set the stranger alight. Maybe the man knew this, because he appeared to be more frightened than anyone. Even from afar his trembling was clear to the eye. Jon supposed it could just be down to the brown rags he was wearing. They would never protect you from the ruthless chill you’d always find this far North. It wouldn’t take long in the outdoors for the cold to catch you in those clothes. Still, nobody approached him. He turned and shook and twisted his head as if he was searching for something. Eventually he cried out in a haggard voice,

“I’m looking for Jon Snow!”

There was something in that voice that made Jon Snow flinch. A shadow of the past. The voice of an arrogant boy who bragged about his gift for archery. But it could not possibly be him. After what that traitor did, he’d be mad to come up here and seek him out. Unless he had a death wish. Nevertheless, Jon found himself descending the steps and walking towards this stranger. Edd watched on from above, ready to grab a bow and arrow should this visitor be an unfriendly one. As Jon got closer, he noticed more unsettling details about this person. The rags – which reeked something terrible – were coated in dried up blood in places. His boots were barely holding themselves together. Then there were his gloves. As his hands fell down to his sides, Jon was almost certain that some of the fabric fingers were not quite filled with flesh and bone. He truly was an unsettling sight. He bowed his head and twitched. He was whimpering like a dog and acting like each breath was painful to take. A knot tied itself in Jon’s stomach and for a moment he thought that maybe the wights had breached the Wall somehow and that this was someone seeking refuge at Castle Black after watching his village be ravaged by the dead. But then the stranger raised his head. Then his worry washed away.

Theon Greyjoy stood before him. Pale, skinny and with scars scattered across his face. A pathetic creature. A ruin of his old self. The skin around his eyes was bright red, and his cheekbones were more prominent than they used to be, but it was him. Theon fucking Greyjoy. Robb’s best friend. Bran and Rickon’s murderer. Suddenly Jon felt years younger. Like he’d just returned to the Wall after escaping the wildlings and was hearing of all the kraken’s treachery for the first time. Jon cursed himself for not bringing Longclaw outside with him.

“Jon,” Theon sniffled, taking a step towards him. “You have to help me!” The crack of his jaw echoed as it met Jon’s fist. Theon fell into the snow face first. Jon’s entire body was boiling hotter than a dragon’s egg drenched in fire.

“You treacherous fucker.” He hissed, watching the blood start to seep out of Theon’s nose. “Edd, fetch me a block!”

Edd without hesitation set out to locate a block. Everyone else watched on, paralyzed with a perverse fascination for what was unfolding. Theon writhed in pain but didn’t fight back. Jon towered over him like a Northern giant. He clenched his fists, getting ready for another round.

“No! Y-you don’t understand!”

“I understand enough, Greyjoy! You shouldn’t have come here!”

“I came from Winterfell! I came from the Boltons! I came to help!”

“ _Help?!_ Aye help me like you helped Robb. Like you helped Bran. Like you helped Rickon!!”

“I didn’t! I didn’t-“

“TAKE HIM!”

No one was fool enough to disobey this furious creature who had practically possessed Jon Snow. Tormund was mystified by what he was seeing. Edd had found a block by now and placed it on the ground. Two men grabbed Theon by the arms and hoisted him up so that his head could be pressed hard against the wood. Theon saw a flash of silver in the corner of his eyes. It was a sword with a white wolf as the pommel with ruby eyes. Jon held it with both hands. In his Northern armour, Theon felt like Lord Eddard Stark himself was preparing to execute him.

“Before I kill you, I want to know why you did it.”

“Jon, _please_. Please I’m begging you.”

“TELL ME WHY!”

“I didn’t! I didn’t do it! Not all of it. Please just-” Theon started to sob. “I deserve to die for what I did. I do. Please, Jon. Please let me speak with you. You can kill me once we rescue Arya, I promise!”

“If you say her name one more time, I’ll slice your head off here and now.”

Theon cursed and cried in utter despair. Yet his tears did not extinguish the fire inside Jon Snow. He looked at how his back was shaking from sobs. Listened to how he was gasping for breath. He was so helpless. It only made Jon hate him more. The North remembers, and so did he. _This is for Robb, Bran and Rickon._ Longclaw ascended into the sky. Theon Greyjoy scrunched his eyes shut and whispered,

“What is dead may never die.”

Longclaw was about to descend when-

“Jon! JON!!”

Davos Seaworth charged down the stairs in a flurry of green and grey. Melisandre stood at a balcony, still and smirking. By the time Davos landed on the courtyard Longclaw was on the ground. Theon was still breathing.

“You won’t believe it!” Davos wheezed, “I certainly didn’t.”

Jon frowned, feeling his rage simmer with each passing second.

“Believe what?”

“This.” He puffed, holding up a piece of parchment with a broken seal. “Read it.”

Jon took the paper and did as he was bid. Theon tried to sit up to see, but the men would not release him. The paper quivered in Jon’s hand as he read. The words sinking in. He could hear nothing but the thumping of his heart. When he finished, he checked the sigil on the seal and didn’t understand why it contradicted the signature.

“It must have arrived after we left.” The old man said, glancing between Jon and Edd. “Mind you I’m not sure why nobody saw fit to notify us.”

“The affairs of lords and kings are not our business.” Edd said dryly. The brothers had been somewhat preoccupied with defending the seven kingdoms from the living dead. Jon blinked at the snow, then the sky as if either one held an explanation for him. Eventually he spoke. His voice had softened considerably.

“Find a cell for our prisoner. Make sure he eats and get him some clothes, otherwise he’ll perish.”

Without dispute, Theon was hoisted into standing and dragged away. He must have been too exhausted to protest. Edd stared on in bewilderment. He had no idea what was in this letter, but it had certainly shaken his friend.

“Do you think it’s true?” Davos asked. Jon squinted and re-examined the paper.

“It’s been years since I’ve seen it, but it looks like her hand. It’s not her sign though.”

“No, it’s not. I believe that is the sigil of House Baelish. If memory serves, Littlefinger has been living in the Vale for some time now. Perhaps they are acquainted?”

“I wouldn’t know. I suppose I’ll find out soon enough.”

With that, Jon left. He was tired of being watched and needed some solitude to take it all in. He still had the letter and must have read it a hundred times before eventually surrendering to sleep.


	5. Family, Duty, Honour

Lord Baelish had told her that they could expect to arrive at the Wall within a matter of weeks. It was then that she thought of Jon Snow. Sansa hadn’t seen her half-brother since they left Winterfell. She wondered if they’d still be able to recognise one another. She tried to picture what he’d look like now, but in her imagination, it was just a bearded version of the awkward teenager she used to know. Perhaps he’d be confused by her brunette locks? Littlefinger had advised to keep her hair hidden on their travels in case some spies of House Bolton had been instructed to ride out and kill any redhead girl seen on horseback. She wondered how much Jon knew about their family now. Surely, he knew of Arya. If the news had spread South, it would not have been difficult for it to travel further North as well. Maybe he wanted to fight with Stannis’s army to get her back but couldn’t because of his vows. It must have been awful for him. Jon and Arya were thick as thieves at Winterfell. Did he cry when he’d heard of her marriage? Would he know what monsters the Boltons truly are? Sansa thought about what he might have heard of her own journey. How much could the Night’s Watch know about a king being killed in King’s Landing, or a lady who had to live as a hostage? Nevertheless, the notion of seeing him once again was sweet. Sansa hoped he’d smile when he saw her. Thinking about it was making her stomach flutter…

Despite riding with them for a number of days already, Sansa still hadn’t grown used to the magnificent sight that was the Knights of the Vale. They were a sea of silver and horses that stretched out for as far as the eye could see. They moved with a swiftness and sharpness that could only ever be achieved by their rigorous training. Sansa had felt somewhat overwhelmed when she’d first laid eyes on them. They flowed down the High Road like a river which made Robin gasp in delight. Flags of birds and wolves rippled in the wind. Even Harry seemed quite taken aback by the grandeur of it all. Petyr Baelish was the only one who carried an air of indifference about it. She remembered how he stood above them all like some giant and declared their cause to the crowds of commonfolk who’d gathered to watch. He told them of Arya’s plight and stated that the bond between the Arryns, Tullys and Starks was unbreakable. He’d told them that the time had come at long last to join the fray, and everybody cheered. Some knights even banged their shields with their swords in support. Yohn Royce had nodded reassuringly, and it was hard for Sansa not to let a sense of optimism swell within her. Then when Petyr Baelish called her name, a distinct hush had fallen. Whether it was with wariness or excitement, Sansa could not say, yet she’d taken Littlefinger’s hand and joined him either way. She never spoke, but she did smile and that seemed to be enough to gain applause. Then Baelish raised their joined hands and announced that she had found love with Harrold Hardying, and that there was to be a glorious wedding after the battle was won. That was when the crowd erupted with screams of joy. Robin Arryn hugged her and said goodbye but refused to pay Harry the same courtesy. They’d all been riding for what felt like an eternity ever since.

It had been an age since Sansa had had to ride so extensively and she’d forgotten how much she hated it. How it hurt your thighs and cramped your hands. Although she refused to let her discomfort show. After all, she knew she could hide her pain well and had no wish to give any validation to the doubts some of the men had developed about her capacity to lead the knights North. Yes, it hadn’t been long before some whisperings from the more seasoned warriors caught her ear. They thought a woman had no place in an army and joked that she would likely swoon at the first drop of blood. Part of her wanted to tell the old goats that she’d already survived a battle and seen more men get ripped apart than any other noble girl her age, but she thought of how anger seemed to repel rather than endear and concluded that courtesy had to become her form of combat instead. Therefore, each night when they’d make camp, Sansa made a point of speaking with the soldiers and learning their names. Often, she’d join them by their fires and forced herself to sip at some ale while she eagerly listened to their tales of valour. It had surprised them at first, yet when Lady Stark laughed at their enemies’ folly and praised them for their victories, the other knights actually started to seek her out to tell her their own stories of triumph. Sansa knew she had fully won their favour by the end of the first fortnight when she sat with the men in a circle and watched Ser Lauryl and Ser Merek fight over whose victory, she would prefer to hear about first. Harry had started to sit with her too on these nights. He’d said it was out of a personal interest in the life stories of others, but she would not have been surprised if it was more down to the fact that his betrothed was surrounded by men. (Some of whom were a little too eager for her attention.) Not that any man would dare to make an advance on her, not when Yohn Royce looked all too happy to run them through if they tried to linger in her presence or kiss her hand without consent. Littlefinger on the other hand _loved_ it. He enjoyed seeing her so desired and knowing that he was in truth her closest companion. When all the stories were told and slumber inevitably called, he’d always be the one to guide her to her tent and wish her sweet dreams. It was a pity that Harry was not half as intuitive as he was handsome. The only real threat to his bride was the man who’d gave her to him.

Now here they were. Weeks from their destination and Sansa’s mind kept wandering. The rhythm of hooves and metal clanking was something that she had grown accustomed to, and her aching limbs had eventually turned numb instead which didn’t bother her as much. It was the brisk morning air that had given her gooseflesh and a watery pair of eyes. She’d persuaded Petyr prior to leaving to purchase some fabrics for the journey so that whenever she had a moment to herself, she could set to work on sewing some dresses more befitting of a Northern Lady. She made a mental note to add some extra layers to her garments so that they could better cope with the newfound chill. In truth, Sansa was now finding it much easier to stitch than to sleep. Whenever she laid down and closed her eyes, she envisioned Lannister solders standing over her with ropes, ready to drag her to Cersei, or sometimes assassins paid by Roose Bolton to slit her throat. She knew that her company was loyal to her, but no amount of loyalty had ever been able to protect a Stark before. Sewing was like a shield for her, and the needle was her sword. And with such weapons she could finally create gowns that portrayed exactly where her true loves lied. Soon every dress she’d finished bore either beaded fish or wolves with threads for fur. It felt good to sew her sigil without fear or shame. In King’s Landing she’d once added an embroidery of Lady to the shoulder of one of her lilac sleeves, hoping her hair could cover it. However, once it was discovered by Joffrey, he’d ordered Ser Meryn to tear the sleeve and strike her for the insult. He then warned her that if he ever caught her wearing another wolf, he would make sure she came to court wearing nothing at all. Even the memory of the words made her cringe. _He can’t make me do anything now, though_ sang a dark voice inside her _._ Today she wore a silk dress as blue as a sapphire. Across the skirts swam fishes with scales of silver and red. She’d tied her hair into a braid not unlike one her mother might have worn. A faded blue cape covered her shoulders. Littlefinger couldn’t take his eyes off her.

“How does it feel, my lady? To know that in a matter of months, or maybe weeks, you’ll finally be home and safe at last.” He’d tugged at his reins so that their horses were side by side. His mockingbird pin flashed in the daylight.

“Safe? I’m not so naive as to think that. It is strange, though.” She replied, looking ahead. “After father all I ever wanted to do was to go home. I never thought I’d end up leading an army to take it.” He grinned in a way that made her feel like she was barely fourteen again.

“I doubt it was ever something your parents expected of you. A highborn girl is raised by a Septa, not a Master-At-Arms.”

“If anything, they might have thought Arya would be the one to do a thing like this. When we were little, I’d always be the one to run away from trouble, while she would always stay and fight it. She was fearless. _Is_ fearless.” Sansa could feel a small lump starting to form in her throat. Petyr didn’t seem to notice.

“Sometimes in life we have no choice but to run. Life will not always place us on the winning side. We must choose our battles wisely.” She met his gaze and tried to steady her voice.

“We will win, won’t we?”

“The odds are in our favour.” Littlefinger narrowed his eyes but the smile didn’t slip. “What makes you uncertain?”

Sansa swallowed and started to pull at the leather on her gloves. Her eyes were stinging. “My brother. Robb.” Salt tears threated to trickle out, but she refused to let them flow. _I cannot keep crying._ “The odds were in his favour once too. Then the Lannisters, Boltons and Freys came together and tore my family apart. Our enemies are still the same. I can’t help but wonder whether or not this will be enough? What if they manage to… outmanoeuvre us?”

Petyr took a breath and considered. Then said carefully, “Your brother was a brave man. That much is beyond dispute. But Robb did not have the kind of insight that you and I have, my lady. You lived with the lions and learned their ways. You’ve seen how your enemies’ triumph with deeds of deceit and dishonour. Whereas I - “

“Have first-hand experience in performing deeds of deceit and dishonour.” She didn’t realise how hearing Robb’s name coming out of Littlefinger’s lips would spark such resentment. She wasn’t even sure why it did. Yet Sansa’s sadness had left her and in its place was steel. She looked at him with a raised eyebrow and a straight back and matched his smirk. Littlefinger liked it. He must have thought she was admiring him. Then a sudden sound of galloping turned their heads. It was Yohn Royce, clad in his usual cream cloak and chainmail. He had a serious expression, but then again he always did.

“My lady, my lord. I do not wish to alarm you, but there appears to be a hooded figure watching us in the distance.” He gestured to the spot and although it was nearly impossible to make out, Royce was right. She had to squint to see it, but it was certainly a dark figure on a dark horse. It would have been easy enough to miss but Yohn had the eyes of a hawk and was on a constant alert. They continued to move, but all three of them kept their eyes on the stranger.

“A spy for the Boltons?” she suggested.

“We could assume so my lady, but I would have thought they’d be more discreet than to stare at us from a hilltop.”

As if the stranger heard them, they immediately began to descend. Sansa’s chest tightened.

“They’re coming towards us.”

Yohn looked at her and gripped his pommel.

“We’ll stop the march and let them approach. If it’s a spy, we’ll kill him. If not, we’ll brand them a fool and send them on their way.”

Sansa would never reveal it to Littlefinger, but she always felt safer when Yohn Royce was around. On the rare moments when they were riding together, he would tell of the times he and her father had gone hunting in their youth. Admittedly hunting stories were not her favourite, but Sansa drank in each mention of Eddard Stark like a sweet tea. She pictured him in her head, walking amongst the trees, wrapped in leathers the shade of umber. She could hear him laughing as the leaves crunched beneath his boots. It was the closest she’d get to seeing him again. Yohn Royce had sought her out when he’d first been told of her true identity, back in the Eyrie. He’d explained how deeply he mourned Lord Stark and vowed to her that he’d personally ensure she was safe on this venture. Littlefinger never spoke of Lord Eddard Stark unless absolutely necessary. Her mother on the other hand, he was more than willing to discuss at length. Sansa didn’t always like Petyr’s stories from Riverrun. Bits of them were often muddied with jealousy and a quiet loathing for her Uncle Brandon. She pretended to enjoy them, but sometimes she questioned what exactly it was that made her mother so fond of Petyr Baelish.

Once all the soldiers had come to a halt, Harry the Heir came riding forth with his sword unsheathed and his sandy hair swept back by the wind.

“What’s going on?” He demanded. He probably thought it sounded gallant.

“We have a visitor by the looks of it.” Sansa replied, pointing to the figure who was gaining speed. Almost everyone was watching the figure now.

“Who is he? A friend or a foe? Either way I can cut him down for you, my lady!” He moved his horse in front of Sansa’s as if to shield her. Yohn Royce rolled his eyes.

Sansa maneuvered her mare to meet his. “What makes you think it’s a man, ser?”

He blinked and opened his mouth like a guppy. Perhaps he only enjoyed it when a bastard girl challenged him. Or perhaps he only enjoyed a challenge when it complimented his pride. “Well, I - I suppose that. From a distance it’s…it’s…um.” His face was getting a pink tint to it and Sansa could see Littlefinger biting his cheeks to hold in a chuckle. Harry looked around desperately for support, but all he received was silence. She tilted her head and watched his bafflement bloom into frustration. “I mean it can hardly be a _lady_ , my lady!”

“I am sure you are right, sweet ser.” Sansa said eventually. It was going to be a long winter for both of them if this was how Harrold Hardyng conversed with highborn girls. Something told Sansa that he’d have had no problem quipping with Alayne. “It appears we’re about to find out.”

They looked out together and saw that the hooded figure had stopped and was now only a few yards away. Judging by the build it was indeed very likely to be a man. However, his face was hidden by a black cloak which also managed to conceal any weapons he may have. Some knights had gathered around Sansa and Baelish and drew their swords. It was Yohn Royce who spoke first.

“As commander of this army, I demand that you reveal yourself to us and make your intentions known. Unless of course you have a desire to lose your head.”

With these words, the stranger guided his shadowy horse closer. Harry’s mouth twitched and Sansa straightened her neck. The swishing of more swords could be heard around them. Then a pair of gloved hands slithered out of the cloak and pulled down the hood. Beneath it was a silver-haired man with a face that looked weary from countless wars. When he answered, his voice was gruff.

“My name is Brynden Tully. Otherwise known as Blackfish.” When his teal eyes moved to the brunette girl before him, she went stiller than a statue. Everyone else turned to watch her too. “I am here to see my grandniece.”

Sansa Stark could hardly breathe. She felt a thousand eyes on her at once and knew she had to speak.

“Are we to believe that ghosts have come to join our cause?” Sansa had never been so thankful for Petyr’s quick wit. “Everyone knows that the Blackfish was murdered at the Red Wedding.”

“Murdered? They might have told me as much.” The man undid his cloak completely so that all could see the blackened armour that covered him like scales. It was the metal fish at the centre of his chest which rendered the matter irrefutable. Sansa noticed the mismatched sword and dagger at his waist and deduced that they must have been stolen. Her great-uncle must have been hiding himself away ever since that dreadful night. “If I can have an audience alone with Lady Sansa, I will be more than willing to explain everything to her.”

Sansa glanced at Yohn Royce who looked convinced that he was speaking truth. She didn’t remember moving her horse, yet she found herself approaching him. Her throat was tight but still she managed to utter,

“I am here, uncle.”

* * *

They rode out to a collection of rocks that were within sight but far away enough to grant them some privacy. Although Royce and Baelish had insisted on assigning four knights to keep watch a few yards out. One of which was Harry the Heir himself, who had refused to have it any other way.

The pair dismounted and sat opposite one another. The rocks felt strange and particularly rough after spending hours on horseback. He was a tall man, the Blackfish. Sansa was tall too, but she didn’t feel it in his company. They spent a few moments in quiet contemplation, each taking in the kin across from them.

“The last time I saw you, you were a little girl. My memory must be going with my old age. I could’ve sworn your hair was red.”

“It was. It still is. I’ve just dyed it for protection. I don’t know if you’ve heard but I’m not exactly a friend of the Lannisters.”

“No, I’ve heard. That makes two of us.” Brynden smiled and Sansa couldn’t help but return it. Then his brows furrowed. “Did you do it?” She took a breath and considered.

“I wish I had.” The Blackfish laughed and relaxed.

“You’re exactly like your mother.”

Sansa looked at the fish on her skirts as the words washed away her smile. A small and stupid part of her hoped that Brynden Tully had come to her now to tell her that Robb and mother had survived by some great miracle and were now hiding out, waiting for another Stark to reveal themselves. It was the most foolish thought she’d ever had. She scolded herself the minute it swam into her head. _Life is not a song._ Her uncle must have figured out her thoughts because frowned and spoke so gently to her.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t save them. I had gone outside for air. By the time I figured out what was happening it was too late. Been on the run ever since.”

It was hard for her to meet his face and appear untouched by grief. Then she remembered how well her mother spoke of Uncle Brynden. How deeply it must have hurt him to know he had to abandon his niece and grandnephew to such terrible fates. She had an instinct to hug him but restrained herself. She still did not know him well enough and Sansa wanted to prove to this clearly experienced fighter that she was not some fanciful child trying to play at war.

“I cannot imagine what you’ve had to endure, my lord. But given what you have, I am sure you can understand the profound sense of duty I feel towards my sister, since it is now, she who is in our enemy’s grasp.”

Her assuredness made him sit upright. Brynden looked her over as if he was seeing her for the first time again.

“I do, my lady. I most definitely do. And I should like to help you, if you’d let me.”

He went on to tell his niece of his skills in forming battleplans and how he’d managed to build a reputation as a formidable force during the War of the Ninepenny Kings. Although she’d read of his prowess in some of the history books at the Eyrie, it was another thing entirely to hear it from his own mouth. The battles were much more gory and far less glorious than the manuscripts would have one believe. Sansa made sure to not flinch at any mention of slaughter – no matter how gruesome – as she suspected her uncle was telling her of these experiences as a means to test her resilience. When he finished, he also advised her of the advantages she’d have to employ a person who had worked with Roose Bolton personally and had gained an insight into how he liked to strategize.

“It would be my honour to accept your offer, uncle.” Sansa said truthfully. She had so much more she wanted to ask him. “Your wisdom and knowledge would be invaluable to us, and there will certainly be a place for you at Winterfell once we reclaim it.”

She thought that might have made him happy, but the Blackfish only sighed.

“I thank you, Sansa. Unfortunately, my place is not in the North. My home was also taken from me. Meanwhile its rightful lord is a hostage at the Twins.”

Sansa knew who he meant. “Uncle Edmure.” He nodded. He waited. He wasn’t as difficult a man to figure at as people might think. Despite being hailed as the odd one out, the Blackfish clearly valued the Tully words. “It is a terrible thing to be held captive. I would know. On my honour as both a Tully and a Stark, I vow that once the Knights of the Vale help me take back my home, I will write to Robin Arryn and ensure that he allows you to take some men South to rescue Lord Edmure, so that you both can take back Riverrun. I would also be willing give you some of my own men if they’re fit enough to fight.” She saw his expression soften at this and knew he was content.

“Then until that day comes,” Lord Tully said, getting to his feet, “You’ll have my counsel and my sword. Although I think I’ll need a bigger sword that’s actually mine.”

Sansa smiled and stood as well. “I’ll speak with Lord Royce. I’m sure he’d be honoured to assist.”

They returned to their steeds and noticed that while three of their guards were facing away, Harry had his eyes fixated on them. He was even so bold as to glare at Brynden.

“Who _is_ that supercilious halfwit?” Her uncle asked.

“My betrothed, unfortunately.”

He looked at her with a raised brow. “By choice?”

“By necessity.”

The Blackfish shook his head before mounting his horse.

“Well then, he’d better prove himself to be worthy of you.”


	6. The Lord Of Winterfell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: There are some fairly graphic mentions/depictions of violence in this chapter.

A girl walked down the passageways of Winterfell in a grey dress and a chestnut braided bun. The woollen material wrapped around her neck and coated her wrists to ensure no scars were seeping through. It was a relatively plain garment, aside from the ashy criss-cross pattern. It still hurt to walk. She’d barely done it since she and Theon threw themselves from the battlements in a final bid for freedom. She remembered how he took her hand, held her close and leapt. The snow was deep and unforgiving. They sifted through it, but she knew she wouldn’t get far. Her bones cracked and her muscles screamed, and she was so cold that she thought perhaps she’d died in the fall and this was the ghost of her running away. In a way that might have been better. He tried gods bless him. Theon Greyjoy tried. When she collapsed, he carried her. Gripped her waist to save her from drowning as they crossed that tempestuous river. He did everything he could. But it was hounds that found them in the end. When they heard their barks and howls in the distance, they both knew that in some way their time together was going to end. Theon Greyjoy laid her down against a tree stump, around her were some corpses of Stannis Baratheon’s army. _‘They won’t kill you they need you’_ he’d said. The sound of mounted horses drew nearer, as did the dogs. She had never been so frightened. He kissed her cheek and embraced her as if it were the last time he ever would. _‘I’ll come back for you. You must believe me. I’ll save you Jeyne Poole, I promise.’_

Ramsay’s men found her seconds after Theon fled into the forest. They asked her where Reek had gone but she refused to answer and pretended to faint. Then one of them flung her over their horse and when she opened her eyes she was back in Winterfell. In her usual cage with Maester Wolkan tending to her wounds and trying his best to soothe her sobbing. She knew he hated his masters, but like all servants to the Boltons, any act of defiance would have cost Wolkan both his life and his skin. So, he’d cleaned her cuts and left her be. It was one of the only nights she’d ever spent alone in that bed. Though it wasn’t long before Ramsay returned to her, this time with a newfound rage. He pressed himself against her and interrogated her about Theon’s whereabouts. _‘WHERE IS REEK?!’_ he’d screamed as he slit her arms pulled her hair. She wept and wailed but never told him anything. It was the most painful game in the world to play, but she knew that if she could just stay alive it would someday end. Theon had vowed as much. She’d live if she kept his secret. For if Ramsay was to take her life, he’d lose both his favourite toys for good. It was the only power she had in these walls, and she was never going to surrender it willingly.

The smell of food brought her back to the present. She’d somehow managed to make her way into the hall where Roose and Ramsay stood waiting for her. Both, in brown leathers that showed the family sigil. She noticed Ramsay still had his dagger strapped to the back of his belt. She thought that might have made a better sigil for him. Candles lit the room, along with a generous fire. It made her cheeks flush, and the slimy smirk of Roose Bolton made her want to spew all over the stone floor.

“Lady Arya,” he said, “I’m so very glad to see you up and about. I hear you had quite a fall, but I understand Ramsay’s been taking good care of you.”

“He has, my lord. Your son has been…most attentive.” Her response was weak and riddled with fear, even she could hear it. But it bothered neither Bolton.

“Will you sit with us?”

She did as she was bid. They congregated at the table in the centre of the room which conveyed an array of meat and fish, along with wine that was so dark it looked almost black in the flagon. Ramsay did not seat her. I barely even looked at her. And when she’d gathered the courage to look at him, she found his features were fixed in fury. She would have assumed it was due to his missing Reek, but he’d never looked that way over it before. Then she noticed the empty chair beside Roose.

“Where is Lady Walda, my lord?” Her voice felt slightly stronger now. The lord glanced at his son and then to her.

“Ah yes. You won’t have heard. My wife has just given me a son. This morning. Red-cheeked and healthy, so Maester Wolkan tells me. They’re resting for now. Perhaps you’d like to meet him tomorrow?”

Ramsay twisted a fork in one hand and took a big gulp of wine with the other. There it was. The reason for the rage. Even Jeyne knew what this meant for him. A lord by decree was no match for a lord by birth. She licked her lips and found the smallest of smiles on her face.

“Nothing would make me happier than to meet your new-born son, Lord Bolton.”

Ramsay spat on the floor and she flinched. Roose narrowed his icy eyes.

“Really?” He gibed. “Nothing would make you happier, my lady. Nothing at all? Well, I must say I’m surprised.” He stuffed a hunk of ham into his mouth. “I would have imagined almost _anything_ would have made you happier than that. Surely another Bolton to fear is the last thing you would want.”

“Ramsay, you forget yourself.” His father stated sternly. “You also forget with whom it is you are speaking with.”

Ramsay glared at him over his goblet before swallowing and turning to his wife. “You must forgive me, _Arya_. I should not be so rude to a highborn lady like yourself. That is what you are, isn’t it? I should hate to be speaking to someone who’s nothing more than a lowborn peasant. Or worst of all a trained _whore._ ”

“Ramsay if you cannot hold your tongue, I’ll have a bridle fashioned to hold it for you.” That seemed to shut him up. But he was still visibly seething.

The two men stared at each other in silence. Not even a blade of Valyrian steel could slice the tension. Jeyne could hardly bring herself to drink but sipping the wine would at least spare her from having to look at or speak with either of them, so sip she did. The quiet felt eternal. The wine was starting to make her dizzy, or perhaps it was merely the company. Eventually Roose Bolton took a small bite of trout.

“I suppose I should explain why I asked you here, Lady Arya.” Roose said casually. Jeyne had been wondering. She normally supped alone in her room. If she supped at all. A litany of awful reasons had sprouted in her mind. What if Roose Bolton wanted to interrogate her too? When if they wanted to flay her in the dungeons? What if it was Theon? What if they’d tracked him down? Ramsay would enjoy keeping him hidden from view until the last moment, so that he could savour the tears that would undoubtedly slip down her face. But surely not. Ramsay would have at least looked a little pleased if that was the reason for summoning her. After all, he loved to see her cry. No. It was something else. Though it was something just as important, if not more so. “I received a rather interesting report this afternoon in regard to House Stark. Your sister, the Lady Sansa, has recently raised the Knights of the Vale and intends to take the castle from us. Our titles with it, I should imagine.”

For a moment Jeyne swore her heart stopped. Ramsay choked. “What?!” Roose reacted to none of it.

“Indeed.” He continued. “It really is quite distressing. Unless of course she is a false Stark. Although I doubt it, given that Lady Sansa is a wanted woman and anyone attempting to impersonate her would be killed in an instant.”

The name rang in her head like a bell. _Sansa Stark, Sansa Stark._ Her closest friend who she hadn’t seen since she was taken away all those years ago. The image of that gentle girl growing into a woman willing to lead a whole army to Winterfell was wild to her. And the idea that she may actually see her again was even more incredible!

“Sansa Stark is dead!” Ramsay protested.

“Sansa Stark was missing. If you really thought her to be dead, then you’re the biggest fool in this room. If that girl had died, then the Lannisters would have found out and paraded her body around like a victory flag.”

It was a horrible mix of anticipation and dread. Sansa could possibly save her, or she could end up murdered by these very lords she sat with. Suddenly the room felt hotter and hotter. Jeyne could feel beads of sweat pricking up on her forehead. She felt like someone was stood behind her tightening her corset.

“Well, what does that have to do with _her_ then?!” Ramsay was pointing his knife at Jeyne but yelling at Roose. His father tilted his chin up. “You and I both know what she is, father. This is not her real sister!”

“No, she isn’t. But she is the only reason this family has not had its claim contested. You underestimate the power of the Stark name. Your wedding was the only thing that solidified our hold on the North and gained our acceptance among the other houses. Since that day, you’ve played your games with her and rumours of those deeds have travelled, and now the both of us have earned an unmistakable resentment for it. If the other lords hear of an older Stark girl marching forth with nine thousand fresh soldiers declaring that she's rescuing her sister from us, who do you think the other houses should choose to follow?”

“They wouldn’t dare turn on us. We would have them flayed them for such a treason.”

“Oh yes, that is the way to win loyalty. Treat every man of noble blood like nothing more than a farm animal to butcher.”

“It worked on Lord Greyjoy.”

“Did it? Where is he then?”

Ramsay quirked his lips and his leathers creaked as he shifted in his chair. Jeyne felt like she’d been paralyzed. She was stock-still and sweaty and desperate to have a reason to leave. Roose studied his son prudently before resuming his meal. “I do not think you stupid, my son. But you won your victory on Stannis by luck and little more. If we are to maintain our power here, we need to be smart about it.”

“So, what do you suggest?” He questioned, scraping at the ham with his fork. Roose examined him again.

“You are to stop torturing your wife.”

“Fine.”

“You are to get your best men to track down Theon Greyjoy and have him killed.”

“I will.” Ramsay promised as his eyes went to Jeyne. “As soon as I know where he is.”

“And then, once the battle is won, we will take Lady Sansa’s head and send it to King Tommen and his mother. That will keep us in the Crown’s favour.”

“I’ll sever the head myself, father. It will be my greatest honour to execute that traitor.”

Roose paused at this pondered his next words carefully before unleashing them.

“Finally, when your little brother comes of age, you will renounce your claim on Winterfell and serve as the captain of the guards instead.” Ramsay froze. Roose gave a half smile. “Or you can serve as kennelmaster, if you would prefer it.”

His son blinked in disbelief. Jeyne Poole could hardly believe it herself. Months ago, such a motion would have been unthinkable. But now that there was a trueborn male in their midst, it made sense for a change in heirs. Not to mention it was a unique opportunity to restore goodwill between the Boltons and the North. It was common knowledge that Ramsay in particular was not popular with the people. Noble or otherwise. Most people deemed him cruel, narcissistic and unsettling. Roose knew this only too well. Now he’d finally grown tired of seeing his house disfavoured.

“Father,” Jeyne had never heard her husband speak with such vulnerability. “If I have done something to upset you-“

“It is nothing that cannot be rectified. I need you to understand that this is not a personal lack of faith in your capabilities as a lord. It’s simply that if Sansa Stark uses your birth as a weapon against us, we must have a way to fight back. Your brother is how we do that. It is imperative that you accept your sibling now has the stronger claim. Perhaps if we had the true Arya Stark things would be different. As it is, this is the way we will win.”

For a second she thought Ramsay Bolton was going to cry. His eyes had glazed over and wouldn’t move from his plate. His hands were tense. His father however was uninterested in his son’s sadness and paid more attention to the wine in his cup. Jeyne had only just willed herself to pick at her food when Maester Wolkan entered the room, blissfully ignorant of what had just unfolded.

“My lords, my lady. A pleasant evening to you all. Lord Bolton, your son and Lady Walda wish for your presence so that they may bid you goodnight.”

“Very well.” Roose said, wiping his mouth before scraping back his seat. Ramsay replicated the action and rounded the table to block his path. Jeyne forced herself to rise as well. Her legs shook as she watched the lords.

“Father I beg you.”

Roose remained unmoved. “We do not beg.” Then something made him halt. He regarded the man before him again. “You will always be my firstborn, Ramsay. Remember that.”

Ramsay did not smile, but he did thank him. “That means a great deal to me. More than you could possibly know.”

Roose stepped to deliver a fatherly embrace but instead was met with a sharp blade to the chest. Ramsay pushed it to pierce his heart. Observing his father’s reaction. Roose gasped and gargled as blood poured out of his mouth onto Ramsay’s doublet. He pulled him close and whispered in his ear, “Don’t worry, father. I’ll be sure to bid my brother goodnight for you.” With that, he released his grip and Roose Bolton fell to the floor, dead.

Jeyne found herself hunched over the ground facing a puddle of sick. Her arms quivered and tears were streaming out of her. Maester Wolkan stood by the fireplace in utter shock. Pale face and mouth agape. The flames made his chains shimmer. Ramsay picked up the napkin his father had just wiped his mouth with and used it to clean the blood off his dagger. Then he sheathed it in the back of his belt. He studied Jeyne with a twisted fascination and grinned at the state of her. Then he peered at the Maester.

“Unfortunately, as you can see, my father is no longer able to bid his family goodnight. If you have them meet me at the kennels, I will do it for him.”

The old man took an awkward step back and fidgeted with his sleeves. “The night air will give the baby a chill, my lord. It is best to keep them both inside.”

“Tell me, Maester Wolkan. Did you often give your unsolicited counsel to the last Lord of Winterfell?”

“N-no, my lord.”

“Then do not presume to do it with me. Summon them to the kennels. My wife will come with me.”

Jeyne gaped in horror. The kennels meant death to Ramsay Bolton. She thought of Walda pleading. She heard the baby’s screams. It was enough to make her retch again.

“No, Lord Bolton,” She whimpered. Her throat raw and burning. “You cannot – I cannot see you do this! I _will not_ see you do this!!”

“Oh yes you will!” He sneered, grabbing her wrist and yanking her to her feet. “After all, you said that nothing would make you happier than to meet my baby brother. So why let us waste another moment? Besides, I would have much preferred Myranda’s company, but you and Reek made sure I couldn’t have it! I’m not sure I’ve thanked you properly for that yet.”

Jeyne wrenched herself from his grip and launched the flagon at him. Ramsay laughed as it clattered and spilt wine everywhere.

“YOU’RE A MONSTROUS BASTARD!!”

That was too far. With terrifying speed, Ramsay had seized her jaw and pressed his dagger against her tongue. “Careful, my lady. I would not be so free with my words if I were you. You see, unlike my father, I don’t need a bridle to shut someone up.”

It was then that Maester Wolkan tried to flee. The act caught Ramsay’s eye. He launched himself at the old man who yelped. This time the blade was at Maester Wolkan’s neck. Ramsay ignored his wife’s cry of despair. “I will look for my mother and brother at the kennels, Maester Wolkan. Should they not arrive, as Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North I will have you executed for treason. Slowly. Painfully. And publicly.”

Wolkan wept but met his master’s ruthless eyes. “Yes, my lord. As it please, my lord.”

“Good.”

He vanished almost immediately upon his release. Ramsay stood tall and triumphant. Although he would not face his father's body. He twirled his knife and smiled at how it glimmered from the firelight.

Jeyne on the other hand hugged herself and heaved helplessly. She knew she had to brace herself for what she’d soon be forced to witness, but she just couldn’t. She never had a tolerance for brutality. She wasn’t sure if she believed in any gods anymore, but she prayed that if they were listening, to send her Theon Greyjoy and Sansa Stark to help her slay this monster in Winterfell.


	7. Wolves At The Wall

Bran and Rickon lived. That’s what Theon Greyjoy told him. When Jon had worked himself up to visit his prisoner, he had sought nothing but answers. Answers he hadn’t been ready to hear before. Why had Theon Greyjoy come to him? What did he know of Arya, and what despicable reason did he have to turn on Robb and lay siege to Winterfell all those years ago? The sad creature barely had reasons or replies for any of it. Mostly sobs and mutterings that Jon could hardly comprehend. The meekness of the man was infuriating. It wasn’t until Jon reminded Theon that murdering their little brothers was his most unforgivable deed that a sharp riposte was finally given. _‘No. Not that. I never done that.’_ Jon had called him a liar and claimed that he was too cowardly to confront his past. Theon shook his head, shut his eyes and confessed to his cell, _‘It wasn’t Bran and Rickon! I swear it! I couldn’t find them. I killed two farm boys and burned their bodies so no one would know. That’s the truth, Jon. The whole truth.’_ Jon couldn’t remember leaving the cells or finding his room after that. Yet somehow, he had, and he spent the rest of that night wondering where in the world his brothers were now.

He’d found Tormund on one of the walkways this morning and told him everything he’d learned. He needed a friend to listen. He needed to say it out loud so that it didn’t feel like some strange secret he had to keep. He thought of Sansa and how she might react to the news as well. He had thought of how Sansa would react to all of the bizarre, unfathomable things he’d have to tell her. No doubt she’d think her bastard half-brother had become a madman. Yet this revelation would surely present itself as a ray of light in the impending darkness. It felt that way for Jon at least. Tormund seemed pleased for him too. Surprised at first, but now he was beaming.

“Two sisters and two brothers, eh? The little crow has a pack after all.”

Jon smiled weakly. “Aye, I suppose I do.” Then his face fell, and his fingers started to twitch. He could feel his mind beginning to muddle with all sorts of probabilities.

“Not happy though, are you?” Tormund frowned, pointing at his friend. “Why?”

Jon sighed and scanned the courtyard for nobody in particular. Two young wildlings playing with swords caught his interest. They were training swords of course, so were made of wood. One of them held the wrong end while the other launched their weapon into the snow as if it were a spear. They laughed together. For a man with a pack, Jon had never felt so alone. He tried to find the words and formed them as he watched the little wildings run to their mother who embraced them fondly.

“We have no home, Tormund. Arya’s a prisoner and I don’t even know where Bran and Rickon are. And Sansa…” He wasn’t sure what to say about Sansa. “We were never close as children.”

The ginger giant shrugged, making his furs bunch up. “So? You both love the other ones, don’t you?”

“I think so.”

“Then the two of you have something in common. Can’t be that bad if she’s coming to see you.”

“She was coming for Stannis.”

“Then she’ll have to make do.” Tormund stood solid in his assuredness. As far as he was concerned, it was a cause for drink and mirth. Unless there was something Jon wasn’t telling him. He decided to prod at the matter a little. “What’s she like?” Jon’s eyes shot to him and blinked. His brows scrunched.

“What’s she _like_?”

“Bossy? Snooty? Full of herself?”

“No, none of that!” Jon declared indignantly, “She’s, um, she’s…kind. Courteous. A noble girl.” Tormund folded his arms and waited for more. Jon shifted against the wooden bannister and rummaged his head for something else. “She’s got red hair.”

“Wonderful!” The wildling cheered with his arms outstretched, “We’ll get along just fine!” Jon couldn’t help but give a grin at that. A grin which caused a chuckle to slip from his mouth. Perhaps he was happy, somewhere deep, deep down.

The sound of footsteps and skirts swishing towards them caused their spark of joy to dwindle. Jon and Tormund turned their heads and saw Melisandre gazing back at them, as red and recondite as she always had been. Neither one of them had ever known what to make of this Red Priestess. Her penchant for fire was unsettling and her obsession with prophecies even more so. Although she was the one who allowed Jon Snow to come back into the land of the living, he still felt somewhat unsafe around her. He had been grateful that she’d decided to keep to herself for the most part after bringing him back. This was the closest they’d been to one another in a while. Her hidden hands and piercing eyes were enough to turn him tense all over. She must have known it too, since she calmly informed him that she came only with good tidings.

“Your sister, Jon Snow. She’ll be with us soon.”

_Sansa. Here soon._ Jon suddenly felt a twinge in his stomach and became very conscious of how dishevelled he was looking at present. He turned to Tormund who seemed unphased. Melisandre advised him to ready himself before sweeping away with a sly expression. She spoke as if he were going into battle. Jon was sure that he was. An army was approaching fast, and the wars in his life were never done.

* * *

The Wall was the most wondrous structure in all of Westeros. Sansa imagined the Knights of the Vale would look like little more than grey ants to all who stood guard atop it. Castle Black appeared to be the size of a cottage in comparison to the imposing ice fort behind. Sansa noticed some of the others knights gasp in awe at the marvel ahead. It was Harry who she was nearest to this morning. They’d made the decision to ride together for the past three days. Sansa said it was to get to know him better as herself rather than Alayne, but in truth she was exhausted by the company and conversations with Littlefinger. Though she was sure Yohn Royce and Uncle Brynden would have welcomed her at their side, they were so often reminiscing about their time at the Vale together, that she’d probably feel like a bit of a gooseberry after a while. It had been that way with them ever since the Blackfish arrived. Lord Royce had scolded himself for not recognizing his old friend sooner, and Brynden was all too keen to also chastise him for the blunder. From then on, the two had talked of nothing but fights, hunts and days in the East. Conversations that Sansa Stark could contribute very little to. Harry was easier to speak with. Not every word with him had to be calculated. Not every pause had to have purpose. The topics were simple and clear. They’d comment on the scenery, the weather, or animals that passed them by on the road. Sometimes Sansa would just let Harry go on about his love for tourneys. A subject he evidently had an immense passion for. Whenever it was brought up, she could hear his voice relax and his sentences flowed far more smoothly. It was nice. If not a tad tedious for her. Sansa had loved tourneys once. Perhaps after surviving a real-life battle, play fighting was just not as enjoyable a sight as it used to be.

They’d both dressed for their parts today. Harry had wiped his armour with a rag until it gleamed and clasped a blue and white velvet cape to his back. He looked heroic and honourable. It was the most handsome Sansa had ever seen him. For herself, she had sewn a light grey garment with a wolfs head on the chest that complimented her ashy furs. The ensemble was the first one she’d worn that made her feel like a true lady and leader. It empowered her in a way she’d never known before, and it caused her to sit a little taller in her saddle. She had decided to make it on the day they received word that Stannis Baratheon had already attempted to take Winterfell himself and had failed terribly. The defeat had cost him not only his own life, but the lives of his wife and daughter as well. The night they heard of this tragedy, Sansa questioned whether or not it would be wise for them to continue. She couldn’t figure out why he wouldn’t have waited for them. Littlefinger had told her a retreat was perhaps worth considering, whilst Royce and Blackfish told her that if anything it simply made their own victory much more certain, since the Bolton men would now be weary from battle and therefore easier to kill. Sansa had spent the following days contemplating other ways that her home could possibly be won without taking the lives of countless worn, fragile men. Then she reminded herself that these were the same men who were complacent about her sister’s forced marriage and daily suffering and suddenly pity was no longer something she felt. Sandor Clegane had once told her that the world was built by killers. How horribly right he was…

* * *

With the blast of a horn, the rickety gate rose up before them to reveal the courtyard of Castle Black.

Jon Snow stood centre, at his right was Edd Tollett and Davos Seaworth. On his left, Tormund Giantsbane. He was confident there had never been a more mismatched crew in all the Seven Kingdoms. He’d managed to splash his face with some cold water and fish out the cloak he wore on the day he left Winterfell for the Wall. He’d caught his reflection in a looking glass and thought that with the furs and Northern leathers, he looked like nothing more than a poor impersonator of Lord Eddard Stark. He tried to change that by pulling his hair back with a tie. That was when a brother of the Night’s Watch found him and announced that the Knights of the Vale had been sighted.

Brothers and Wildlings had all gathered around the walkways and windows to witness this auspicious moment. A few men standing guard in the pillboxes had seen the spectacular vision from the top of the Wall earlier and came down just to rave about it. As he watched the gate go higher, Jon could hear the whispers building. He tried to ignore it, but all the lauding over the sheer mass of mounted soldiers outside was making his head pulse. Then he saw them. Four men of varying ages and a brown-haired woman on a pale horse leading them all forth. Jon held his breath. How regal she looked now.

“That her?” Tormund murmured, sounding confused. “I thought you said she was kissed by fire.”

“She was.” Mumbled Jon, looking dazed and daunted. Still his feet carried him to the lady who had now slid from her saddle and was walking to meet him.

Her hair was dark, yet the blue eyes, pointed nose and freckle on the left cheek told him this was Sansa. Jon said the name and her lips curled up cautiously. She replied with his.

“Hello Jon.” Her voice was lower and not as soft as it used to be. She must have noticed him trying to figure out her hair, for she then explained that it was not a permanent change on her part. “I’ll wash it out soon.” All he could give in return was a single nod.

Sansa Stark could hardly believe this man was her brother. A boy no longer. His face was sharp with faint traces of scars. His beard was more prominent now and his dark eyes looked shiny and sad. It made her want to hug him. She would have, had it not been for all the onlookers and the palpable air of anticipation. _I must be a Lady first and a sister second._ Jon Snow must have thought something similar as he too appeared to be holding himself back.

“It’s good to see you, my lady.” He bowed stiffly. She took a step towards him and Jon clenched his jaw. Sansa hadn’t expected him to be so nervous.

“You don’t need to call me that, brother.” He searched her face and found nothing but sincerity.

“No?”

“Of course not! Unless you really want to.”

“I don’t.” _Seven hells that sounded rude._ “I - I mean obviously I don’t not want to. I just-“

“I know what you mean.” She said sweetly. Jon could feel sweat seeping down the back of his neck. An uncomfortable silence followed until something seemed to snap and the two of them burst into laughter at the absurd awkwardness of the whole thing. “Perhaps you might introduce me to you friends?” Sansa inquired, and it was like the whole courtyard had heaved a sigh of relief.

Jon first introduced her to Edd, deciding that he was the easiest to explain. He bowed to her and she curtsied in reply before commenting on how brave he must be for taking the black and guarding the realm. It might have been the only time Jon had ever seen Edd blush. Then on to Davos. Upon announcing his allegiance to Stannis, Sansa revealed that she knew he had fallen in battle and conveyed her deepest sympathies. Davos thanked her cordially. Finally, there was Tormund. When he told her what he was, her brows drew together as if she’d somehow misheard.

“A wildling?”

Jon’s throat constricted as Tormund stared at her stiff and unblinking. “Yes. We’ve fought together many times beyond the Wall. He’s a loyal man and an even better friend.”

Sansa stared back. She didn’t seem shaken at all by his height or his strength. “I’ve never met a wildling…” She started, “If they are all as impressive as Tormund Giantsbane then I should be glad to meet some more.”

Tormund’s stony stare quickly became a glowing grin.

“Impressive, eh? Maybe I can tell you why they call me ‘Giantsbane’?”

“Maybe some other time!” Jon interjected. He turned to Sansa to apologise but found that she was now wide-eyed and peering at the sky. It wasn’t so much a face of fear as one of fascination.

“Who is that?” Jon followed her line of sight which led to probably the largest creature she’d ever seen in her entire life. Tall as a tower, he was shrouded in shadows at the farthest corner of the yard. Jon could hear Ygritte mocking him in his mind as he tried to be nonchalant.

“Him? His name’s Wun Wun. He’s one of the Free Folk. He’s a giant.”

“Yes, I can see that Jon.” That made Edd Tollett smirk.

Tormund laughed and slapped Jon Snow on the back so hard he stumbled.

“Ha! She’s a smart one, your sister!”

“Sansa!” The Young Falcon squawked as he dismounted and came trotting up to her side. Clearly, he had clocked the colossus as well. “What in the seven hells is that thing?!”

“A giant, ser.” She said dryly, ignoring how he wrapped his arm protectively (or possessively) around her waist. “I am told he goes by the name of Wun Wun.”

“Is it safe?”

“Only if he likes you.” Harry blinked at the black-haired man who’d made the short remark.

“And you are?”

“Jon Snow, ser.”

“Oh.” Harry frowned and tried to switch his tone. “Well in that case, it’s an honour to make your acquaintance Lord Snow.” He held out his free hand for Jon to take it, but the man didn’t move. He did don a dark look though that was making Harry’s perfect smile twitch. Sansa could sense a rift forming. She pulled her view from the giant and placed it on Jon and Harry.

“Forgive me, brother. Allow me to introduce you to Ser Harrold Hardyng.” That didn’t do much to shift the mood. She sidled out of Harry’s grip and motioned lightly, “My betrothed.”

“Betrothed?” He had forgotten she’d been betrothed. What a fool he was. “I see. Then the honour is mine, Ser Hardyng.” Jon took the outstretched hand and Sansa glanced at the ground. The act of acceptance must have come off as some sort of signal since it wasn’t long before the rest of her retinue joined them.

Just as her brother had done for her, she presented Lord Petyr Baelish, Brynden Tully and Yohn Royce to their hosts. The three of them stood tall and proud in their own ways. Davos displayed a distinct excitement to be meeting the Blackfish in person. He expressed how much he admired his tact for strategy and prowess on the battlefield. Sansa imagined her uncle was used to receiving such compliments as he smiled calmly and made some jape about how they couldn’t forge enough swords to kill him and Barristan Selmy in the War of the Ninepenny Kings. It was a promising start. Sansa and Jon smiled at one another as their friends and counsellors came together. Although part of her longed for a moment of peace and privacy with him so that they could freely speak of the journeys they’d had Then something nuzzled at her back.

“Ghost!” she exclaimed. The great, white wolf was wagging his tail. Sansa felt like a child all of a sudden. She crouched down to pet him, and he licked her face. She could hear Jon chuckling, but when she glanced up at Harry, he looked like he was about to faint.

“Tell me, Lord Snow.” The blonde knight ventured, “Is every creature in the North so much bigger than it is in the South?”

“You’d have to tell me that, Ser Harrold. I’ve never been south myself.”

“Wait until you see the _real_ North.” Jeered Tormund. “We’ve got spiders as big as hounds and snow bears the size of boulders.”

Harry gulped. “Thankfully this is as far north as I ever intend to go.”

Sansa could feel Uncle Brynden watching her. She attempted to appear oblivious by continuing to stroke Ghost, whose ruby eyes were glistening. Then a flake of snow flittered in front of her and vanished on the ground. She looked up and saw the sky was pale as a pearl. Snow had begun to fall all around them.

The Blackfish suggested they all gather in the hall to discuss their plans going forward. Yohn Royce departed to instruct the knights to make camp with Harry the Heir in tow and Littlefinger helped Sansa into standing.

“Perhaps we should let these two have some time alone, Baelish.” The Blackfish said, gesturing to Snow and Stark. “It’s been years since they last spoke so I’m sure they have much to talk about. I don’t think they’ll want us sitting around like a couple of earwigs.”

Littlefinger pursed his lips and agreed to retreat. He leaned into Sansa before leaving to reassure her that he wouldn’t be far should she need him.

“It’s alright,” she requited, “I’ll be alright.” And then just like that they were alone. Jon, Sansa and the snowfall. Although Ghost was still with them, ever a loyal direwolf to his master. They went to head into the Commander’s Room for shelter, when Sansa saw a flash of red in the corner of her eye. There, in one of the towers. A woman. Scarlet and stoic. Something was twinkling at her neck. “Jon, who is she?” He stopped and saw her too.

“Melisandre.” He answered. “A Red Priestess who worked for Stannis.”

His words might have vanquished her because once he’d spoken, she was gone. Sansa knew very little about those who worshipped the Lord of Light. Jon told her she was not someone to worry about, but she noticed him looking at his feet as he said this, so she guessed that was likely a lie. Nevertheless, they went inside. Ghost, padding after them.

* * *

“You _died_?”

It was such a surreal story to tell, but it had spilled out of Jon like a waterfall when Sansa asked him about his time at the Wall. He spoke of his bond with the Free Folk and the mutiny that ensued. He told her of those who’d defended his body and brought him back to life. Sansa was transfixed the entire time. Jon had no idea just how light it would make him feel to speak so openly about his death. He’d always thought it would make him shake and weep to recount such a traumatic event, yet it felt more relieving than anything else.

“And Melisandre was the one who revived you?”

“She was.”

Sansa stopped for a moment and considered her next question.

“What was it like?”

Jon swallowed his ale. “It’s difficult to describe. It was nothing. It was like going into a dreamless sleep.”

“So…you never saw anyone, or anything?”

Jon could see her eyes going glossy. “No. I’m sorry. It’s probably not what you wanted to hear.”

“No,” she sniffed, “It’s, it’s fine. I’d rather you were honest with me. It’s probably best you don’t tell any Septons about it though.”

He smiled at that. “Aye, you’re probably right.” He took another sip of his drink. “Do you believe me then?”

Sansa sat back and studied the flames dancing in the fireplace. “I can’t see what reason you’d have to lie about it.” She could feel his eyes lingering on her. “There’s something else isn’t there?”

He did a sharp inhale and spoke solemnly. “There is.” It was at that point that Jon Snow told Sansa Stark all about the dead beyond the Wall. The wights, the White Walkers and the Night King who led them. She said nothing, yet her forehead creased, and her lips parted. She held her hands together so tightly that her knuckles went white. He wanted to stop talking about it. He did. He hated himself for causing her such visible distress. _She must know,_ he reminded himself, _she has to know._ He came to a halt after describing the horrors of Hardhome. His sister was statuesque.

“They were true then.” She said at last, trying to steady her voice. “Old Nan’s stories. All of them were true.”

“They must’ve been.” Jon could feel guilt crawling all over him. “I don’t want to scare you, Sansa, but you need to know. There is a war coming. A war unlike any that’s come before it. And if the North is not ready, we’ll all be damned to march in the army of the dead.”

“All the more reason for us to win Winterfell. Whatever direction the threat comes from, that is the safest place for us. From there we can warn the other houses and help them prepare.” There was steel in her speech. It made Jon Snow sit upright. “I don’t imagine you’ve heard much about me, this far north. The Lannisters have a price on my head.”

“For what?”

“They think I killed King Joffrey.”

“Did you?”

“No. Not that anyone would believe it, given how he treated me.”

It was now Jon’s turn to listen. Sansa’s story was shorter, sadder and the wording more carefully selected. She talked of Cersei’s cruelty and the Tyrells who’d plotted to wed her to Ser Loras until she was forced to marry the imp. By the time she got to Joffrey, Jon was already full of wrath for the lions he’d met all those years ago, and their vicious inbred son.

“I almost did kill him, once.” She confessed, “It was after they murdered father. Joffrey took me up on the walls and forced me to look at his head. He enjoyed seeing me cry. I never knew I could hate someone so much. We were very high up, and it was such a long fall. All it would have taken was a push. I remember at the time thinking that it wouldn’t even matter if I went over with him. It wouldn’t have mattered at all.” 

Jon couldn’t speak. It was like someone had their hand around his neck. What is more, he hadn’t realized how tightly his hands had balled into fists. His fingernails were digging into his palms. His teeth pressed hard together. He was hot, too. Boiling.

“Littlefinger was the only reason I was able to escape King’s Landing. He sailed me to the Eyrie where I hid for months under the alias of ‘Alayne Stone’. She was a bastard-born girl, you know.”

Jon Snow pushed down the lump in his throat. “Really? What was that like?”

“Better than being a hostage.” She smiled and licked her lips in thought. “It gave me a lot of time to reflect on the way I treated you actually. It was unfair of me to be so cold to you, Jon. I was too eager to please Mother. I’m sorry for that. Do you think you could ever forgive me?”

“There’s nothing to forgive.”

“I was awful, just admit it.”

“We were children…and you were only awful on occasion.”

“Forgive me!”

“Alright, alright I forgive you.”

Gods knew how but now they both were smiling. Sansa tried her cup of ale and they quickly concluded that it was most likely the worst-tasting ale in Westeros. So instead of drinking their cups they drank in each other. It was like they were meeting each other for the first time. Yet this was the closest they’d ever been and the longest they’d ever conversed. Ghost had fallen asleep and lay sprawled between them. The sun had set hours ago, and the cold night air flooded the room. It collided beautifully with the crackling fire. In a way it felt like Winterfell. In a way it felt like home.

“I hadn’t realised how long we’d been in here.” Sansa said, noting the stars outside. “Will the others be looking for us?”

“Edd’s probably shown them to their rooms. He knows where we are if they need us.”

Sansa got up and went to the window. The breeze caressed her rosy cheeks. She could smell smoke from outside and soup from the halls and thought about her sister. Instantly her chest ached.

“We have to get Arya back.”

Jon agreed with her and stood up to stretch his legs. “I was going to go after her myself before you arrived. No plan or army but, still I wanted to go.”

“Why didn’t you?” She asked, looking over her shoulder to him. Jon braced himself to ruin the moment. He met her eyes and told her.

“Theon Greyjoy.”

Her whole face dropped.

“What?”

“He came here. Dressed in rags and covered in cuts. Saying he wanted to help. Telling me he knew about Arya.”

“And you killed him?”

“No. I nearly did. I took him as a prisoner instead.”

She approached him with a hard expression he hadn’t seen her wear before. They were inches apart.

“Why on earth would Theon Greyjoy want to help us?”

“He claims he’s been a captive of the Boltons himself. For years. He managed to escape from Winterfell and wanted to help Arya do the same.”

“And you believe him?”

“Aye, I do.”

Her nostrils flared as she tried to piece it all together. She started to pace. Her cloak sweeping the floor.

“How? How could he possibly want to help Arya? Why would he think she’d even let him after killing Bran and Rickon? Does he take us all for fools?!”

“He didn’t, Sansa.” That made her stop. “He never killed Bran and Rickon. He told me he couldn’t find them. That they had gotten away from him and he never knew where they went. He confessed to killing two farm boys in their place and insisted our brothers survived.”

His words had stunned her. She took a few steps back and gripped the edge of her chair for support. Jon continued carefully, not sure on how she’d respond to what he had to tell her next. “I told him you were coming, and he said wants to speak with you. He has something important to tell you about Arya. I tried to find out more, but he refused to tell me anything about what they did to her or how she was.” Sansa didn’t answer. She just breathed slowly. Jon couldn’t read her at all. “You don’t have to see him if you don’t want to. I told him he has no right to-“

“Where is he?”


	8. A Terrible Truth

The cells of Castle Black were freezing and empty. Save for one. Right at the very end. Jon had shown Sansa where her room would be first before guiding her to where she’d find the renegade ward of House Stark. There was no telling how far they were into the night now, but hardly any lights were lit in the windows and very few brothers stood guard. The only sounds to be heard were the roaring of flames and the distant murmuring of some men. Sansa had a brief thought about what everyone else at the Wall had spent the day discussing, yet it was a fleeting wonder that sunk beneath an ocean of ruminations about Theon Greyjoy. She remembered how it was when she had first heard of his treachery. Joffrey had tracked her down in the godswood and told her she’d have to start praying for the new Prince of Winterfell. Sansa watched his wormy lips twist and mock her confusion. When he clarified that her brother Robb had been betrayed and Winterfell was naught but ash, her head had felt light and dizzy. It was Sandor Clegane who held her upright when the King spoke of her brothers’ deaths. _‘Is it a tradition for Stark men to be roasted alive? Is that how I should kill your elder brother, my lady?’_ Sansa had prayed for Theon’s death twice that day. She’d never heard of him since then so had thought perhaps for once the gods had listened. On the contrary, it turned out that Littlefinger was right again. There really was no justice in the world unless we made it for ourselves. _The worst ones always live._

They stopped at the arched entrance. The scones on the walls of stone only illuminated one half of their faces. The other half was swallowed by darkness. Jon gestured ahead.

“He’s in the end one on the left. Are you sure you don’t want me to wait for you?”

If she could, she would have made him stay. However, something told her that Theon would know if someone else was listening in and wouldn’t be so generous with his insight. Sansa Stark braced herself.

“I’m certain. I have to do this alone.”

Jon moved as if to embrace her, but instead turned, crossed the courtyard, ascended the steps and disappeared inside. Sansa was by herself completely. No guards or weapons. Nothing but herself. She shut her eyes and made a vow to be strong. Then she closed her cloak around her and went towards the cell.

Between the bars she saw him. Curled up in a corner on the floor. Head hidden. Shivering in a stream of moonlight coming through the tiny window above. She wasn’t sure how to begin, but she knew she had to be the one to start.

“You wanted to speak with me. I understand you have something important to tell me about my sister.” It came out taut but even. His face flicked up and she watched his limbs uncoil like a snake. When he answered his voice was brittle.

“I did.” He pushed himself to standing. “I do.”

Then for some good few minutes, neither spoke. When Theon had first caught sight of the woman watching him, he’d thought it was Catelyn Stark. Stupid, since it never could have been. But he had expected Sansa to be smaller, and gentler, and not so darkly dressed. How changed she was. Not that it should have shocked him the way it did. All those years down south would not have kept her Winterfell’s daughter. He just never anticipated this. Until recently Theon had thought this Stark girl would not have crossed his path at all. He had made peace with never seeing her again.

The man in the cell looked more like a ghost to Sansa. His skin looked sickeningly pale and gaunt. His hair was the colour of dust and his eyes were glassy and distant. He wore charcoal clothes that were in far better condition than he was. If he were someone else, she might have felt sorry for him.

“Well,” she asserted. “I’m waiting.”

Theon fumbled and looked all over. She straightened her stance.

“H-has Jon told you? The truth about your brothers?”

Her face and gaze did not move from him when she answered that he had, and he’d told her that Bran and Rickon escaped.

“Good.” The prisoner whispered it more to himself than to her. “That’s good.”

Sansa could feel her muscles tensing. Her eyes drying. “Good, is it? You think it’s good that you spared my brothers lives because you couldn’t find them and resorted to killing two other innocent boys in their stead? Do you think that will somehow make me think better of you Theon?”

“No! No, I didn’t mean-“

“Lord Greyjoy I have had a long and arduous journey North, and I do not wish to be in your presence for a moment longer than necessary. So, if you would be so kind as to tell me this vital piece of information you have about how those monsters have tortured my sister, so that I might leave these cells.”

He dropped to the floor as if she’d punched him. He gripped his gut and his face distorted into some ugly expression. His back shook and suddenly he was weeping. Sansa thought she would have liked to see this, but it was only making her more desperate to depart.

“You have to promise to save her.” He heaved. “No matter what I tell you.”

If Theon Greyjoy’s plan had been to prick her decency with every word he spoke, he was succeeding. Sansa wanted to smack him.

“Do you consider me as disloyal as yourself? I ensured nine thousand knights pledged their swords to me so that I could win my home back for my family and rescue her. I do not need to make any promises to you about my intentions!”

Theon’s mouth fell open at that, but he was speechless. She tried to recompose herself while he absorbed this news. His eyebrows were twitching, trying to figure it all out.

“You’ve brought an army with you?”

“I have. Did Jon not tell you that?”

Theon shook his head and bit his lip. His teeth were terrible.

“He only told me you were coming. Never said about anyone else.”

Sansa wasn’t sure if it was the flames at her back or the vexation within, but she was far too hot to endure a tangent.

“What do you know of my sister, Theon?”

At that question, he pressed his gloved hands against his lips as though he were about to pray. Sansa observed there was something off about how a few of the fingers moved. Then he confessed to her.

“I know that...she is not your sister. They don’t have Arya Stark.” These words made Sansa feel like someone had come and removed her furs from her. She felt her face cooling. Yet Theon hadn’t finished. He took a weary breath and looked her directly in the eyes. “But they do have someone you know.”

Her brows furrowed. She could not think as to whom it would ever be. Most of the people she knew were in other corners of the world or had left it altogether. So, surrendering, she asked him. Her question made him flinch which in turn caused her a twinge of unease.

A tear dripped down his cheekbone and into his beard as he revealed the true identity of the Boltons’ captive. “She went with the two of you to King’s Landing. She was your friend. The steward’s daughter.” Each sentence slid into her ears and crumpled in her gut. It couldn’t be. It just couldn’t be! She wanted to flee before he could say. To run straight to her room and hide under the bedcovers so as not to hear her name. The man in the cell studied her standing so still, appearing as though she wasn’t entirely drenched in dread. Then he said it. He said it so plainly. “They have Jeyne Poole.”

“That’s impossible.” She hissed, hoping that might make it so. Theon was strong in his resolve though. It was the first time he looked to be calm.

“It’s the truth.”

She wanted to refute him. Truly she did, but all her instincts told her this was no lie. Sansa forced herself to speak. To respond. All the words came out shaken and vulnerable and she sounded so horribly helpless.

“But I…I…I don’t understand it. How could the Boltons ever have gotten Jeyne? I haven’t seen her since the day they took my father prisoner! Unless someone from King’s Landing gave her to them, there is no way she could have possibly ended up-“

Suddenly Sansa was thirteen and surrounded by the southern walls of the Red Keep. The air smelled of shit and cinnamon. Her hair was red and wrapped in a mound. A lion pendant choking her. Cersei Lannister stepped into the sunlight, a snide glint in her green eyes. With a honeyed voice she told her,

_‘Lord Baelish will see that Jeyne’s well taken care of, I promise you.’_

The world went heavy and her throat had closed. Sansa clutched the bars in front of her to bring herself back into the North. She told herself she was safe. She told herself it couldn’t be so. Yet the words trilled in her head over and over like a mockingbird’s song. Then they sucked out all the breath she had and tried to evoke from her the tears that pooled near her lashes. Theon was talking but he sounded all muffled. The cell bars were cold, but she could hardly feel them. All she could feel was minty breath, ringed hands on her cheeks and a gravelly voice whispering to her. _‘Look around you. We’re all liars here, and every one of us, better than you.’_

“I have to go.” And go she did. Swiftly.

* * *

Castle Black was spinning. Sansa’s heart thumped so hard and fast she was sure it was going to burst. Her legs moved her across the courtyard and around corners and corridors and then all at once he was there. Smirking and sauntering like some all-knowing demon. 

“Sansa.” He called. “There you are. I was beginning to worry that you’d lost your way.”

Littlefinger was so close and so present now that she wanted to scream. She had no clear mind to manoeuvre him with at this moment. The very sight of him was suffocating her. Still an easy lie managed to slip out of her like a reflex.

“Lord Baelish. Petyr. I’m so glad to see you. As it happens, I had lost my way. I thought I knew where I was going, but I must have taken a wrong turning somewhere. I didn’t think anyone would be awake to help me.”

Miraculously her voice and body had steadied. She even gave a mirthless chuckle over her terrible sense of direction. Petyr was all too happy to take her arm and show her the way.

“Do not fret, my lady. This castle is dull and easy enough to navigate once you’ve had a chance to take it all in. Your own bed is not so far from my own.”

Sansa was thankful for her entire body being more or less covered in leathers or silks tonight to protect her from his touch. They went down the walkways together and were able to converse so casually that Sansa almost convinced herself she’d imagined her meeting with Theon Greyjoy.

“I hope you enjoyed your evening with your brother. Or rather half-brother.”

“I did, thank you. He had a great deal to tell me.”

“What was he like, compared to how you knew him as a girl?”

“Different. More subdued I suppose. If I’m honest we barely ever spoke as children.”

“It was not unlike meeting a stranger then?”

“Indeed. Just one of the many men who are strangers here.”

When they reached her room, Baelish bid her goodnight. She closed the door before he could have a second to snatch a kiss from her.

In the end, Sansa Stark only slept that night because her body demanded it of her. And it was the worst sleep she’d ever had. A slumber fraught with merciless nightmares.


End file.
